What's up, Mills? Rosalind told me to write one letter every week, so here I am. It's my birthday today. Mom wanted me to get my license, but I don't want to. I don't want to do anything lately, since you left. I can't get myself to move my ass and pretend you're still here. What's the point. We all die sooner or later, so why pretend you're life has meaning? Of course I don't tell Mom that. I just tell her I'm tired. I don't think she believes me. I am tired. All of the time. The other night I went to sleep at 8. I was still tired. I sometimes wake up, have coffee, and then not eat anything for the rest of the day. I'm not anorexic, don't worry. I just don't want to eat. I'm not hungry. School starts in three weeks. Three letters. If there was anything I could do to get myself out of High School, I would do it. But you know my parents, their will is incredibly strong. Speaking of parents, Michael (your dad) made it out. He doesn't talk much. Neither do I. He sometimes comes over for dinner, a smile on his face that looks so fake I wonder if I can peel it off like a sticker. I haven't tried. It might come across as rude. You used to say that a lot. You are the most polite person I've ever met, and the only fifteen-year-old I've ever met who shakes hands. You're still fifteen, you know. No matter how much you insist I'm not, I am older. By eight months. But you'll always be fifteen. Wow. No. No, no, no, no, no, no. Maybe this is just a dream and my beautiful, smart, kind, girlfriend is still here. There's really not that much I can say, except for please come back.
Love, Paris