Chapter Text
Dear Boris,
I'm sorry I couldn't stay. I think I have some issues I need to sort out (but let's be honest, who doesn't). I already regret my decision miss you a lot, and the world feels so much more different. I don't really know what to put in this letter, to be honest. Surprisingly, I don't feel any sadness surrounding my dad, though I'm sure it's just shock. When my mom died, it was shock for a few days at first, so maybe this will be the same. Obviously it's not, my dad could never love me like mom did.
Jeez, this letter is a mess. It looks like half the content has been crossed out. I know you never really minded messiness, but it still brings me a bit of relief knowing you will never read this and have a chance to judge me. What am I saying, Boris Pavlikovsky never judged me. You run your fingers through my hair admiringly, you pull me closer when I have yet another nightmare, you are literally my light (despite your dark attire) in this bland world. Or, you were.
These nights, I wake up, sweating and gasping for air more often than usual. It used to be just nightmares about that day, but lately, I've been seeing you when I close my eyes. It's like my subconscious is trying to tell me something. I never remember the dreams, only that you are in them, and never actually there by my side when I wake up from them. Every night, I think about going back. Back to Vegas, back to you. But I don't know how I would could. I know things will never be the same, and I don't know how Xandra would respond. I think it's only my own selfishness and cowardice that keeps me. My head and my heart battle it out, and I feel as though I am left to pick up the pieces. If you were to read this, I have no doubt you would make fun of me for how stupid that sounds.
It's only/still been a week or two since I left, but I am overcome with want. I want to hold you again, to feel your breath too close on my skin again, feel your heartbeat under my head again. I miss your dark hair, your dark clothes, your dark eyes. Here in New York, most everything is a variation of grey, but I have yet to find a beautiful darkness that could rival you. Popper is doing fine, though I think he misses you. I miss you.
My writing has been all over the place, but I couldn't care less. I'm kind of just vomiting out my feelings into words right now, and I'm sure. you wouldn't be correcting my English grammar if you were here. God, I wish you were here.
I guess that's all I have to say for now. I miss you Boris. Popper says hi.