Sutton
I spend the night reading the letters he wrote. There are memories, diary entries of something that happened on a day he wanted me to know about, and a page titled I’m Not OK with various dates.
Sitting on my bed, legs crossed, I read through every page. My eyes burn from the tears that have been falling for hours.
My phone’s calendar notification goes off at midnight and I yank it off my charger to read it.
August 29 - Anastacio’s Birthday all day.
“f**k, that is today,” I sob, wiping the tears from my eyes with the blanket. “Happy birthday, Ani,” I whisper.
“f**k, you didn’t even make it to twenty-one.” I tug the neck of the hoodie over my nose, pinching the bridge of it. I opened the last bag earlier this evening, a zip-up hoodie, dark red, nothing significant on it. It’s
