6
March 2000
I kept all her letters. I wasn't sure why I was so attached to them; I guess it was nothing more than that I was attached to everything she wrote. They barely seemed to be written by her to me anymore; it was like reading a stranger's journal, or a book she'd written about a fictional pair. They were sad, lonely in a way, but they didn't make me sad anymore. They were just words now, just distant memories. I don't think she knew I still had them; I don't think she'd want me to have them. She'd probably prefer to forget about that period in her life—she thought of it more as running away from things than being free from things. Still, I didn't see myself getting rid of them any time soon. They felt important, and what she didn't know wouldn't hurt her.
I was finally going th
