The letters build up like dead leaves in autumn. We were just girls, young and stupid, or no—I can’t call you stupid, even though everyone else says it was your fault. I can’t call you anything bad; instead, the shame eats me away from inside me like rot in a dying tree that I said nothing to you that night. Instead, I remember your wild grin, and the way your black hair flared out like the sun itself from your head. I remember how I always followed you like a compass needle ever pointing to its north, and even though the crash was nearly ten years ago now, even though I haven’t touched weed since, as if not smoking it now might save you from the crash that broke you against that tree like all of my dreams shattering to dust, the letters are still there, unmailed, in a bin in the corner of my room. Some are fresh, still, stupid as that is, written on days that overwhelm me until you are the only person I can talk to, but the ones at the bottom are starting to show their age, as if they can feel time passing, even though I can’t.

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