July 2, 2017, one week since Mitch died

My love,

I want to hurt myself so badly. But I'll try not to. For you.

It's my fault, Mitchie. You died because of me.

I wasn't there for you. I always assumed everything was fine. I didn't push you more when you said you were okay but lied. I didn't tell you that I loved you enough.

No. Love.

It's all my fault.

I hate myself.

If you aren't coming home, could I come join you? I'm sure it's nice up there. Anywhere is nice as long as you're with me.

I can't believe it's been a week. It doesn't seem like it. I keep thinking you're going to come into the bedroom before I try to sleep, dressed in my t-shirt that comes down to your thighs, and jump on the bed just to crawl on top of me and tuck your head in my neck.

But you aren't. You won't. You can't. Not anymore.

Yours,

Scott xx