My eyes glossed over the words scribbled on the long piece of paper, words that were written in different techniques a testament to her state of mind throughout the process. The ink trailed off in some parts, like the pen had slipped from her hand mid-word. Some of the letters looked like they were melting, thinned and faint, as if she'd been holding the pen too loosely, some were in her normal writing light, tall strokes that showed penmanship assisted by frail hands while other parts were pressed in hard, the ink so dark it bled slightly through the back of the page. I could almost see her hand shaking, or pressing down with too much force, then lifting, uncertain. Like she had stopped and started a hundred times. ‘My sweet girl,’ the letter began, ‘I don’t know how to start this. I’ve written and rewritten these words in my head for years, but now I’m running out of time and I can’t avoid it anymore.’ The ink was deeper at the end of the letter like she had held the pen there,
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