My dear,
Do you remember when you told me I was special? Do you remember my response? I'll say it anyway. I said everyone is special to someone. You tried to give me the best smile you could and I caught it; for a moment, you wished I would just stop making everything so difficult. I never let you compliment me. Now I wish I would've, just to see the way the world gets a little brighter when you smile. I remember every one. I could probably recite them out loud while reading something else in my head. I wish I had told you that. If I had told you what you truly meant to me, how much I appreciated you trying to help, even though I could handle it on my own, maybe you would've been less willing to let it all go. To just give up. Why couldn't you have pushed through? Sometimes I think about it too much and I get so mad I almost rip up your letters. I never do. I don't think I have it in me, not anymore.I don't have much of anything in my anymore. Last month I went out and thought I saw you walkinng. I ran so fast my brain almost didn't catch up to remind me that was impossible. I haven't been out since. The world is flat without you. As if there's no reason for it to turn. As if it was trying to impress you with its skills. Now that you're gone, what's the point? What's the point without you? Your friends told me I should move on. They said you would want me to. Is that true? Do you think it would be best for me to remember someone else's compliments? For my arm to be held on walks by someone else? To call another to ask about their day? How can that be true? After all we've been through, tell me how that can possibly be true. No, really, tell me! Use the strength you so often tried to convince me was there to punch a hole in the ground and climb out of your grave. You want me to move on? Tell me yourself, and I will. I promise.
sincerely,
Yours (even if you don't want me to be)

Amanda is lovely. She's brutally honest, which can often make her come off as mean, but really, she's one of the most kind-hearted people I've ever met. I know all of her secrets, but so does everyone else. She always says, "A dishonest life is a life half-lived." Don't know where she got that from. Amanda has dark blonde hair and likes to keep her face bare. She prefers wearing skirts and dresses. I've never even seen her in pajama shorts. Amanda lives in Monteplier, Vermont in a small red house blue apartment.
Yesterday I was with Rosie. She was sensitive and easily offended. I can't say I liked her very much. Despite the rotten parts, she was loyal. When she makes made promises, she kept them. Rosie was the kind of person that if you once told her you liked a band, she'd remember and surprise you with tickets on your birthday. Rosie made a lot of mistakes. I don't miss her.
But she's nothing now, so none of that matters. Amanda and I are moving in together today. It'll be tight, so hopefully she won't regret it. We're about three hours into the drive now, but it feels more like six. After another hor, we pull in at a gas station. We step out of the car together. We open the door of the little convenience store at the same time. We knock on the restroom door together. When there is no answer, we pull the handle at the same time and enter together.
I see Amanda in the mirror.