Chapter 2: Hope
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Another word, another sentence, another letter. My way of communicating with the world, has become my only way of communicating with my love. As I sit and write yet another letter to her, I can only hope that she is able to read my words to her.
Everyday I sit with my head in my hands, racking my brain for something to write. It�s not that I don�t have the words to say, it�s that I have too many, and don�t know which ones to put down on paper. Maybe that�s one of the reasons why I write her everyday, so that I can tell her everything that I should have said while she was still here.
I want to write her name, but for some reason that seems so impersonal, and so I have taken to addressing the letter with My love. It�s so fitting, and I know she understands. For the past few weeks, I�ve been writing about everything that I miss of her. I still have plenty more, but now I�m writing of hope. I put my pen to my parchment, and begin to guide the instrument to it�s destination.
My love,
I have written to you for so long, with words of longing. Those words are still in my mind, but now I write to you with hope. I hope that you get this letter. I hope that you can read my words, and feel them as I do. I hope that you are safe wherever you are. I hope that I can find a way to bring you back. I hope that you think of me with each passing day as I do, because know this. No matter what happens, I am here waiting for you, and I am thinking of you with each passing moment.
Until tomorrow my love,
Logan.
My letters have begun to evolve over the span of writing them, but they have begun to sink into a routine. As well as the familiar address, I end each letter the same. Telling her that I am waiting for her, and thinking of her. I sign it with until tomorrow my love. I�m not even sure if she gets a letter a day, or gets them in one lump sum a week, or if she even gets them at all. I always hope that she gets one a day, so that she understands what I am always thinking.
I drop off the letter at the post office at the same time every day. The short, stout woman there knows me by name now, and always greets me with a smile, and a promise that my letter will be one of the first to go out the next day. I thank her, and begin my return home.
Each day when I pass the Space Needle, my thoughts of her become even stronger. I wonder if she�s somewhere where she can overlook her city. If she�s somewhere where she can escape to a place to think. If she�s somewhere safe.
At the end of everyday I venture to the edge of the earth and overlook the vastness of the ocean in front of me. Sometimes I can almost feel Max looking back at me, across those same waters, thinking the same thoughts that I am. Ones of loneliness, and regret. Regret for all the things that were never done when they could have been.
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