My Dearest Xxxxxxxx,
As I write this letter, I am thirty five hundred feet up in the mountains of Myanmar. Up narrow winding roads, over endless breathtaking moments, we are finally in the small town of Taunggyi. The weather here is different, a chill in the air.
As I half a bottle of rum, my lips burn. I look at a photo of you and I am still. My heart beats slowly, my eyes, a blur. A single breeze brings me back. My hands are shivering now, not from the cold of the mountain, but of my heart.
There was a moment I turned to check if you were cold, if you had that grey sweater of yours, a mistake I made far too many times. There are these moments where I feel I’ve lost my mind. Moments I wish were real, but I know them to be not. This is the battle I fight, every single day.
We spend a night here before we continue on, a surprise I have in store for you. I look forward to the morning, more than yesterday. As the cold air starts to tickle my feet, I pull over my blanket, wrestle with my pillow and close my eyes.
It has been a week without you and I’m alright. A week without you, and I’m holding strong. I am sure now, more than ever. I need this. We need this. And when the dust finally settles, I’ll see clearly. Or at least I hope I finally can.