Dear Harry,
Do you remember the day on the island when we made love on the beach? I think about it all the time—not the actual love making, but after.
We both laid on our backs, naked, totally covered in sand but not caring. We were just simply...satisfied. The sun was warm, and we let the waves hit our legs as we shifted between smiling at each other and taking it all in.
I felt that again last night, lying with you in my bed. Harry: my hero, my savior, the only one who came to my aid yesterday. If I could, I would have given you the world if you'd wanted it—then and now.
But I'm the only one.
You say that you are only happy with me, so why aren't you with me? I don't understand.
I sat in my bed after you left and cursed myself for the millionth time that I wasn't able to push one tear out. Because I wanted to, desperately. I wanted a good, hard, thorough cry—the kind that gives me red eyes, and a runny nose, and steals my breath away.
But not because you left me—there was never any other option for you.
It was because I realized that I would let you do it to me again, and again, and again. Leaving as quickly as you came. Rolling in like a wildfire, with only charred fragments remaining.
While you go off and live your life, I'm here, stuck in the ashes, not quite able to look at another boy's face and not see you.
I'll never tell you no, Harry, no matter what. No matter who else you spend time with, no matter how many. I'll never be able to turn you away. My need for you is unconditional.
I would take a million mornings like this morning from hell if it meant the night was spent with you.
And that is the saddest thing.
Love, Sunny