After Dana was gone, Katie told us she knew where you were.
She’d written. You hadn’t written back. But your parents had told her that you’d gotten the letters. That you’d read them. That you were doing better—some days more than others.
We all decided to write. I don’t know what Katie said, or Jack. And I know it will be up to the doctors whether to share the letters or not. We talked to your parents about it. I had honestly been afraid that they would forbid us from doing it. I thought they blamed us. But it was pretty clear that they blamed themselves. It hadn’t even occurred to them to blame us.
Dana still has her version. She will still hate us. But there isn’t anything we can do about that.
I still have the photos, though. Even though they are as unreliable as memories. Even though I will only know my story behind them, not yours.
At least, not until you tell me yourself.