I had a box of letters that I kept hidden in the crawl space in the attic. They were all to you. I would read through old stories and moments that we shared and the fire in my chest would burn even higher than before. I wrote to you, and told you how you seemed like the air and that I wanted to breathe you in. How you were the sun, and I wanted to spend my whole life in the summer. How you were the rain, and how I fell for you to be like the rain too. One day I got angry, angry because it had stopped raining, yet the sun didnt show through. And I tried to take in lungfulls of air but I choked on nothing. I took our box of letters and secrets, our box of late night tear stains and drunken conversations and lit a match. I burnt them all. So I could just forget about everything and the fire would die out inside of me. But I found that box today with only one letter inside. "J-," it read, "it has always been you. -S" you'll never see it. But it has.. It has always been you.