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Dear Stede,
I love you. I love you. I love you. In case this goes
I love you. I try to tell you every day, but what if there are days when I’m not there to tell you any longer? When I’m lying awake at night, curled up and facing you on the pillow and your hair is messy and you’re drooling a little, that’s what I can’t stop thinking about. You, going through an awful bloody day where not a single person tells you how brilliant and beautiful and how fucking loved you are. Where I can’t tell you.
You’re cooking dinner right now. You’re just across the room, chopping potatoes and humming that song, that fucking –
Stede. That’s why I’m writing this. Fuck. I don’t want to worry you, but I also need you to know everything. I need you to remember that I would never, never abandon you on purpose. Not after everything; not after we’ve found each other again. I want to wake up every day and tell you that I love you. I want to help you cook. I want to fuck you in our bed with your legs and your arms wrapped around me and my face in the curve of your neck, and if one of us cries it’s all right because – god, Stede, how couldn’t we? I want our life to be good. I want us to be happy together, and to grow old together. And that won’t happen – it can’t happen, Stede – if I don’t do what I know I’ve got to.
I wish I could just write I love you a thousand times. Ten thousand times. Enough so that you can have one every day for years and years; for the rest of your long, happy life, so even if I’m not there you can always have someone telling you. But I need you to understand everything.
I love you, Stede. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you, Stede Bonnet. I love you. I love you. I love you. I lo
He’s back I hear him on the porch I have to put this away. More later.