Hello my dearest. It has been a long time since I have last written to you. Since the last time, I have not expected to write again and yet here we are.

It has been a year since you left me and, oh, what a rough year it has been. A stormy time when waves of anguish, squalls of despair, and clouds of darkness were my constant companions. Say what you will about the dark thoughts, at least they stay.

We have met face to face a couple of times since the worst of the storm has past. It was all very adult and civilised. Yet underneath my calm demeanour a vortex of the pyre of my love for you still burns as strongly as when I wrote that fateful letter that set you off so greatly.

Not many things have changed in my life in these past twelve months. Still as troubled as long before our lives intersected, I have made strides to improve my dreary existence, to believe in myself, to believe there is a better future for me. These last twelve months of extensive psychotherapy have also opened my eyes to see your actions in a more realistic light of not being all that ethical or worthy. And yet it remains a mystery to my therapists and to myself why I still love you. What poison have I drank to still be infected this way? What sin have I committed to still suffer the consequences? Or is love itself is my cardinal transgression?

The road ahead of me is dark and full of mysteries. One hopes that when I see the light, it will be the end of the tunnel and not the light of the oncoming train.