Dear Jane,

Four letter words, both of us. I find that eerily comforting. Just as saying this in a letter you won’t ever get to read. Or, if you do, the people you could talk to about it are rather numbered.

I find myself missing you. I find myself missing a lot of people as of late. Raphael, who remains close though he is forced to be elsewhere. Mascha, who got killed way before her time, posing as much of a threat to us as she is and always will be a loss. Jacques, whom I have killed in every way except for his body, which is likely to follow soon. And you, whom I did kill through advancing a long over-due judgement.

Perhaps I should feel remorse. Some of these nights I wonder if I even still can. Better yet, whether I was ever capable of doing so. But where there is no remorse, there is a sense of hollowness. Something that should be there and is not. Perhaps someone.

More often than not I am grasping at opportunities, trying to fill a void I never even knew existed. And though what I do gets noticed and has purpose, there are still so few who even know its value. Like any artist, I am lost without appreciation.

So where do we go from here, girl? Bet you thought I’d never ask you a question like that. Bet you thought I’d never ask you a question I actually meant. Yet here I am, lost at see, wondering where that void will take me.

• Nate –