I found my webcam today.

I bought it to Skype with my family but I ended up using it mostly to Skype with you.

It's covered in dust. I only used it maybe 2 times since you and I last Skyped. I've been avoiding Skyping with family because being in front of it's lens is too painful for me. The memories of Skyping with you are probably some of the most painful. Not as painful as the ones I have of us in person, but close.

I remember the way you looked at me every time I turned my cam on. Every time I turned it on, you smiled, even when you weren't feeling so great, and even near the end, you looked at me and smiled. The last times we Skyped, the smiles looked sad, but they were still there.

I put this webcam somewhere where I couldn't see it because every time I looked at it, I would drift off into memories but quickly snap myself back and remember that you aren't there anymore; you are no longer on the other end of the camera, watching, smiling. I thought that maybe if I put it away, you would also go away. Unfortunately it didn't work. You still float around inside my brain; a constant ache, an open wound.

I don't really know what will fix this. Time has gone by and I'm still hurting. The waves don't crash over me as often as they used to, but they are still just as devastating.

I don't know how to end this letter, so I'll just say this: I miss you, and I hope you miss me too sometimes.