53
I reach over, pick the paper up, and read. Write down what you feel. Everything you feel—about Paris, about life, about me—from now until September. Then leave it when you go, so I’m not alone with my memories. Leave me your memories, too, so I’ll know it all really happened once you’re gone. So I’ll know you weren’t just a beautiful dream. The paper trembles in my hands, but the tremor isn’t caused by my nightmare or the breeze from the windows. I press James’s letter against my chest and close my eyes, then simply sit for a moment in silence, allowing the emotions to pass through me like a sudden quall at sea, a frothy rage you fear might capsize you but that eventually calms to sunny skies and tranquil waters. One of the few therapists I had who helped me in any real way once told m
- Writer
