I finally have the chance to write to you with the sliver of comfort it brings me to know it’s possible, you reading my words. The day I left, I cried because I felt miserable and hopeless. Did you know that I wrote our last conversation in my notebook? It hurts to look at it, but I read it every once in a while to remind myself that everything is temporary. But it’s the end of November now, more than a year later, and I can’t imagine living a life without you. I can’t forget your silly stories, but I hope they’re true in another life; me and you by the fireplace.