I never told you how often I reread your letters, and how I now feel agonized, to know they are lost to me, scattered somewhere in Marisol’s B and B. I never told you that I think the world of you, that I want to read more of your words, that I think you should write a book and publish it. I never thanked you for going to the front lines with me. For coming between me and the grenade. I never told you that I love you. And I regret that, most of all.
