It was a cool, spring day; the kind of day where you can walk around the house in a t-shirt and jeans comfortably with the windows open. A shrunken, frail, seventy-year-old man was packing boxes in his room when he came across a Nike shoebox in the back of his closet. He set aside the items he planned on taking into the assisted living home and opened up the box, staring down at all of the envelopes stacked inside of the box. His eyes wandered to the return address space on the first envelope and he gasped. Carefully, the man’s shaking fingers opened up the mail and he read the first letter to himself.

September 29th, 2012


Dearest Jack,

You know that I was never one for apologies. I was always the type of person who said what I meant, and meant what I said. But, here I am: apologizing to you. By the time you receive this letter, it will have been a full month since I packed up in the middle of the night and disappeared. It will have been a full month since the night we snuck outside after the party at the end of Warped Tour, our fingers intertwined as we walked through that grassy field. A full month since the last time I uttered the words “I love you”.

I hated to leave you like that. Honestly, it killed me. It had been you and I against the world for years, and I never wanted anything to change between us.

I hope that maybe someday, you will understand why I had to leave. I’ve been longing to return to your warm and strong embrace, dreaming about it every night. Please wait up for me. I promise I won’t be long.

Not a day has passed where I haven’t thought about you.
Alexander William Gaskarth