Chapter Text
month 1
Newt, to be honest with you, I wasn't sure how to start this letter or entry, or whatever this is suppose to be. I'm still in doubt that you'll ever read this, it feels pointless to me only reminds me of the fact you aren't here, that my hands are red, and your eyes lack the stars behind them.
Everyone's afraid. Afraid of the unknown, afraid of their so called "known", afraid of the past, afraid of the future. There's a lot to be afraid of. Me? My mind is full, over come by huge clouds of fog, it's hard to stay real, to live, to breathe. I've began to think things would be much easier to be consumed by the heavy mist seeping through the cracks of memories and pieces that no longer fit. But something pulls me back; fear.
Fear that Minho will have no one. Fear that he'll find out. Fear that I'll lose the last string attached to sanity I have left. I can't tell him, ever. The thought of him finding out is almost as terrifying as the thought of not telling him at all.
The worst is the fear of the flare, what it did to you, that it took you away, and I'm certain I could never live through that again.
But I hold on, I often think of the times where you've laced your fingers through mine, when my skin melted onto your bone and our hearts beated as one and you'd whisper in my ear, "don't ever give up," or "it wasn't your fault," they way your accent made my name feel like it was wrapped up in a warm blanket by a fire place, "tommy," like I was the thing you cherished most in our fucked up world. It's so selfish of me to think, but I often hope I was.
Or that I still am.