Please reply so I know that you’re alright.
He never forgot about me. He didn’t even try to move on, and here I was, spending the past three years trying to forget about him.
There’s no order to the letters, because the next one I open is two years old.
Someone thought it was a good idea to play Disney on TV in a room full of thugs. We watched Mickey Mouse. It made me think of you.
Everything makes me think of you.
Why didn’t Mickey give me these sooner? Why didn’t he remind me about them?
I just won two and a half grand in a bet. Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere as soon as I’m out of here.
I chuckle through my tears as I pick up the next letter. My heart crumbles, the padding falling out and the cracks splitting wider.
8160 hours.
365 days.
52 weeks.
That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.
Happy birthday, Isabella.
I’ve been learning how to sketch portraits. It’s not much, but the drawing at the back of this page is my gift to you.
I love you, Princess.
I wish I could hear your voice. Or that you’d write to me. That would be my birthday wish. That’s the only thing I want.
I choke on a sob, giving up on trying to keep my tears from spilling onto the parchment. He’s bled for me while I’ve cried for him. We’re nowhere near even. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he’s willing to bleed for me until the day he dies, and he’ll spend the rest of his life keeping the tears out of my eyes.
I have an idiot cellmate who gave me an early birthday present in the form of a prison tattoo. Can you guess what it is?
That must be Rico.
Why didn’t I try harder to find him? Why didn’t I even consider the possibility that he might be in jail?
That was stupid. I don’t know why I asked you to guess.
I’ll just tell you the answer: I wanted to carry a part of you.
It hurts.
It all fucking hurts.
There must be at least a hundred letters in this pile.
I don’t even know why I still bother sending you letters. You probably don’t even read them. You’re eighteen now and most likely far away from Greg’s house. I’ve been lying in bed wondering what you’re doing now, which colleges you applied to, and what you’re planning on studying. Or if you are still deciding what you want to do.
You’re so smart, I know you’ll be amazing at whatever you put your mind to.
I knew you’d worry about paying tuition, so I’ve been saving for when you decide if you want to go. And if you don’t want to go, that’s fine too. I just want you to know that it’s there when you need it.
Just respond whenever you can, I guess.
I miss you.
M.
Hidden in the corner behind the bed, I stop breathing as I read the next letter.
They put me in the box yesterday.
As soon as they put me in there, my first thought was, “At least I can see Bella after this.” Then as the minutes—or maybe hours—went on, the voices got louder. They wouldn’t stop. No matter how much noise I made, they made more.
It’s worse than I remembered.
I wanted to die, Bella.
Thoughts of you were the only thing that pulled me through. But I couldn’t stop thinking about this one question. Do you think about me anymore, or have you forgotten?
I tried telling myself that there will be a letter from you waiting for me once I crawl out of Hell. But I should have known better, because I know the answer.
You’ve forgotten about me.
Pulling my knees up to my chest, I sob into my arms.
I don’t deserve him. I never have. I never will. I’ve taken him for granted; he should never forgive me for how terribly I’ve treated him.
I want you to know that even if you don’t miss me, you have been the only thing on my mind since I met you. Bars will never change that.
“Bella, what’s wrong?”
I snap my head up to the door, and a second later, I’m on my feet. Nothing else registers until I crash into his arms. Sandalwood and cinnamon soak into my skin, but I need more of him. My fingers find a home in his hair to draw him closer until there isn’t an inch of space between us. “I’m so sorry. You must hate me. I’ve been awful to you. Mickey—Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” I cry against his lips.
Pulling away, deep gray eyes bore into mine, the corners creased with worry. “Bella, what happened? Talk to me.”
I nod frantically. “I will. Whenever you want.”
I lean into his touch when he cups my face, and I hold his gaze. All he’s ever done is support me, and it’s time I support him too. “Why are you crying? Who do I need to kill?”