You were always the color Red.
It’s been 10 years since you left me. I worry about you; where you are, if you’re happy, if you’re angry, or feel cheated and betrayed. If you don’t feel those last ones, don’t worry, I feel them for you.
I wonder if you are ever disappointed in me, in what I have become. I got to live and yet I’m not happy and haven’t achieved anything of any true consequence, nothing really. Nothing that would make your possible sacrifice worthwhile.
I worry that your family blames me for your death. But really, that’s alright if they do, if it makes them feel better. You and I know - it was no one’s fault.
I hate that, you know. That there’s no ‘moral’ or ‘take away’ from your story…just that truly horrible things happen to people for no reason, and that life never apologizes.
