DEAR SAMMY,

That’s how these things always start, right?

I pretend you’re still here, spill my guts on the page, and hope one day you’ll understand the meaning behind my words. Except you won’t.

Because to understand, you’d actually need to read what I’m saying.

And we both know that will never happen again. Seventeen.

That’s the number of journals I’ve written to you since you died. One for every month you’ve been gone. Well, almost. I skipped last month. Let’s just say there were a few days where I was . . . on vacation. A brain break, if you will.

Life has been super overwhelming lately. To be honest, I’m starting to hate these journals because no matter how often I write, or what I say, or how hard I wish we could talk about it later, you never respond. Which is probably why I blew you off last month.

I can’t win. Even though I sorta hate it, I also need to write to you to function.

The worst part is I can still hear your voice in my head when I try to imagine what you’d say. It makes me want to cry and scream and break things (which I often do) because I’m terrified one day I’m going to lose that part of you too.

That’s all I have left. A memory of your voice. It’s not enough.

I miss confiding in you. I even miss your bs answers that never made sense until, like, three weeks after the fact. Or your bored two-word texts in response to a freaking paragraph of my grief (you always reminded me it wasn’t that deep in the first place because me and drama go together like PBnJ, and I’ve got the attention span of a gnat). Or how you used to fill up an entire note during fifth period with your horrible stick-figure drawings while I waited impatiently for your advice on something serious.

That shit used to make me so mad. Now? I would literally sell my soul for one word from you. One stupid stick figure.

I cannot grasp the fact that I’ll never get your opinion about anything in my life ever again. Especially because there is SO MUCH we need to talk about RIGHT NOW.

All of my journals have been important in one way or another, but I promise you eighteen is going to be the Mount Everest of them. Like this one is gearing up to be a level seven on the WTF scale. And the absolute worst thing about it is a part of me still expects an answer from you. I really need your advice, and I have no one else to turn to. Not even the Scar Squad.

Especially not the Squad.

I don’t know if I can forgive you for this, Sammy.

But I’m going to keep making these journals because if I stop it means I’ve stopped mourning you. Well, I’ve never been a quitter, so I’m not quitting you.

Over and out—

Your sis Casey Jones