Dying to Love You
She pulled me down beside her on the narrow bed, tucking herself against me like she'd done countless times, her head on my chest, arm draped across my waist.
"Talk when you're ready," she murmured. "Or don't. I'm here either way."
That's when it hit me, the full, crushing reality. My father was dead. By his own hand.
The last words he'd ever write to me were on that pathetic fucking note, as inadequate as every conversation we'd never had....
"He didn't even say he loved me" I whispered, the words ripping from me like they were barbed. "Nineteen years, and he couldn't even write that he loved me in his fucking suicide note."
Bab Populer