March 27, 2042.

Apparently, these letters aren't healthy coping mechanisms. Can you believe that? 

She's probably right. My therapist has been saying things that I can't disagree with. But it doesn't make it much easier. She told me that I should try to stop writing to you, as a way to move on. I cursed at her and walked straight out of the appointment. 

I think the reason I was so upset was because she was right. Writing to you isn't going to make it easier. I can't let you go; I don't want to. 

I found the recordings I saved of you when we were younger. Do you remember when we would pull all-nighters together to finish our term papers? I would get so stressed and you would fall asleep, sprawled out on the couch. 

When you were awake, you used to sing to yourself. Quietly, but just loud enough so I could hear you. You used to record yourself, keeping them so that you could review your voice later and critique it. 

One day, I was bold enough to ask you to send them to me, and you did. It was over two hours of your raw vocals, sometimes stuffy with sleep, sometimes as clear as if you were right next to me. I listened to all of it then, and again last night.

It had been your dream to be a singer. If you hadn't been so focused on your studies, you told me you would have auditioned as a vocalist and worked in the music industry. Instead, you settled for creating lullabies for our future kids. 

I'm sorry you'll never get to do that. I'm sorry the disease took you before we were able to truly live the way we wanted. I'm sorry you can't smile the way you used to. I'm so sorry.