It’s an art—learning to love, learning to un-love, and learning to forget.
It would take me three days to finish that letter. Three days. Because I would write a sentence, throw myself under the covers while I let the one line resonate in my head, and proceed to allow my internal organs to twist and pull until I needed to actually fetch for air. And after I finished pouring all my vulnerability onto all the tear-stained pages, I would procrastinate another hour with three-dozen read-overs before I could bring myself to sign, seal, and deliver it—the letter, the key, and three years and nine months worth of friendship and memories.