Sprague

Thinking about the friendship we will create through each of these lines, I promise to be roundly honest with you, dear friend, throughout this letter. I can confess, despite everything, that there will be moments in this document when I will have to be a little less determined in the words used, and I will have to resort to some language addictions so that you can understand me accurately.

I will be telling in too much detail about the life of a man who, on a scale of sad and unlucky people - which you should well know is a considerably long list - has always occupied the first place. I don't want you to feel sorry for me or any supporting individual that may appear in this letter. We all have our problems, and we would not like to have our lives compared to Edward's.

To establish this narrative, I need to go to a truth that I can't deny. Edward will never know the morbid fascination we will achieve at the end of this document. He can never feel ashamed to have all his weaknesses and intimacies exposed in this way. And he will also never again have the privilege of feeling sad about any misfortune in his life. He doesn't have a life anymore. There are only you and me left, two people who will have full knowledge about the past, the present, and what Edward could have become if he had waited a little longer for his pain to pass.

It will be inevitable that you will end up reaching the end of this document with questions about me. So, first of all, I would like to try to clarify who is writing to you at this very moment. I've never been the happiest person in the world. I never had the feelings of others in the palm of my hand. I was a girl like any other. Born into a successful family and surrounded by cousins who graduated from college before reaching the age of sixteen. I was raised in a family that valued intelligence and wit. I was raised to fight against sadness or any hindrance in my professional career. That's why feelings have always been left aside, even for such a young girl.

I was born in the same city as Edward, although I had a childhood on a much more favored side of that province. And, despite being the standard and very privileged type of girl, I never had reason to feel as similar as Edward until a tragedy was placed among the members of my family and made me see a world beyond that colorful whole that I thought was the same reality for everyone.

If Edward had known me in those first years of my life, he would never have felt any kind of sentimental and empathetic duty enough to start any relationship. If Edward knew the girl who loved festivities and was surrounded by relatives, because she could brag about her high grades and plans, he would not have shown the slightest interest in making a friend. He wouldn't have gotten close. Because we were from discordant worlds. Although our souls are identical, Edward would not see who I was on the inside if he noticed all the futility on the outside.

Therefore, my dear friend and reader, I need to make it clear to you that nothing in this story was just a coincidence of fate. Edward was more than just a soul brought into my path. And we were never just lovers who found their luck by sharing their tragedies. We were made of all this sadness, and our paths crossed purposely. He wanted to give up, and I was there to do the same, but everything changed the moment our eyes met.

I wonder if you are already understanding how this story ends. If you have already noticed that melancholy is purposeful for you to realize where we will go. Because, if you haven't understood yet, I need to make it very clear before you delve into these lines. I have to tell this story. Even if there is no one to read. I am the only one who still knows of Edward's existence, and I need to pass on this knowledge before even my memory betrays me.

I immersed myself in these pages of affliction and witnessed half of this man's worst moments. Therefore, in memory of what he represented in my life, I need to prevent his life from ceasing to mean something to others. If I die, Edward's life will be forgotten, which is why I am writing this letter. I need you to know who he was, and what he did for me.

I don't want to say that there will only be happy moments in this document. On the contrary. The only happy part will be in the heart of this letter, and it will still be so small and momentary that you will not even realize that it happened. The beginning and end of this story are tragic, but I still hope you understand. It wasn't a relationship that I would say serves as a model for someone to follow. It wasn't too romantic and long enough. It hurt and it still hurts to talk about it. Because Edward and I hurt each other long before we came to an end. We tried to push each other away so that none of our attitudes would serve as a bad example. Still, I am grateful that someday I found this man, and I hope you understand.

Establishing these issues, I need to make one last thing very clear in this document. Edward is dead. Buried. And forgotten more than seven feet from the ground. I need to make this clear because I don't want you to be deluded by the idea that he may appear until the end of this letter with a declaration of love for me. Edward has no voice in this document or any other. He will not be able to dispute what I am saying and the image I had of him before his end.

Edward will never read this letter, and, to be even more honest, I prefer it to be like this. Not for fear that he could say that the height I thought he had was not something of such importance. Or that his usual group of friends was less fun than I thought. I'm not afraid that Edward's spirit will be offended by my words. It's a matter of having a space where my grief can be released. It is easier to accept the pain now that I am exposing it to the world, without anyone being able to stop me.

Not that I have any miserable hope that this letter will be read by more than a dozen people, but as long as you, my youngest and most curious friend, understand what I am wanting to pass on, it will have already been worth it for each of my tears that stained the other two letters I tried to write before this one. Because, no matter how much time passes, I will still feel hurt and hurt by Edward's choices. Because he had a choice. And he chose to be far away.

But before I start describing how everything was lost in our path, I need you, the reader, to be aware that I do not romanticize, I do not share, and I do not believe that the solution to extreme sadness is to give up. I hope you will commit to continuing to read this letter, even at times when history becomes too indigestible for the most fragile hearts. Because only at the end of everything will you understand what happened.

Of course, I cannot demand that you continue here after all the suffering that I have been through until today when remembering everything that happened to Edward. After knowing that even when mentioning your name in a digital letter, my own heart feels afraid to remember all the past. But I can demand that you commit to opening your mind and trying to understand the complexity of Edward's mind. I can ask you to try hard enough to understand where everything was lost. If you will accept my request, this is another story.