It's been a whole summer, a whole three months, since you moved to California. I can feel your absence like a tentacle around my body, getting tighter each day that goes by.
The days are dark when you're not around. The air is getting harder to breathe.
But you're not coming back, so what's the point of these letters? You're never going to read them, because I'm never going to send them.
They will all be pilling up under my bed. Crumpled and useless.
I should stop. I'm wasting trees.