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My dear Regulus,
I never imagined that I’d be writing a letter like this to you. Not that I ever wrote much anyway, but I figured that if I ever did start writing it’d be to someone who could at least write back.
My point is, if this is shit, I’m sorry. I don’t think I was ever taught how to properly write a letter. That is, if there even is a proper way. Though I suppose if there was, you’d definitely know it. You used to spend hours at your desk, just writing. Sometimes I wonder what you were writing about. Sometimes I think it might be better that I don’t know. I don’t like thinking about that fact that you’ll never be able to tell me.
It isn’t fair, really. I wasn’t ready to give you up. I’m still not, which is why I’m not really sure why I’m writing this letter. I don’t know what I’m going to do with it. I can’t send it to you, because I still want to believe that you’d be able to receive it somehow. But I can’t send it off anywhere else, either. I guess it’ll have to rot under my bed for the rest of eternity.
But you don’t care about that. What do people write about in letters, anyway? There isn’t much I can say that you don’t already know. I could tell you how life after school is going, but it’s honestly just more of the same. I could tell you how Barty and I finally got our shit together and started dating, but you’ve known that would happen for a while. You’d probably pretend to be annoyed at us, and then secretly brag to Cas and Dora about how you’d called it from the beginning.
I don’t think I’ll ever experience anything without imagining how you’d react. I don’t think I’ll ever make another choice without you in mind. You can’t just be gone. Not that quickly, not without any notice. We still need you, Reg. You’ve got to come back. Or at least let us meet you somewhere.
I still don’t know why I’m writing this. I’m still not going to send it. After all, why would a person write a letter to someone they don’t believe is dead? It doesn’t make sense.
I know if I were talking to you, you’d probably have some deep, philosophical response for all my questions. I can’t ask them to anyone else, they’d never answer right.
Though I suppose I can’t ask them to you anymore, either.
Until we meet again,
Evan.