Dear Novel,
I adore you, you are shiny and magical and deep. It has been a wonderful few weeks together and gone so much better than any other first date I admit. However we need to talk.
It isn’t you.
Its me.
I am not ok, my health is declining in ways that have me honestly scared and I can’t focus on you, I can’t give you that loving connection that you deserve. I am not sure we will make it through and I am sorry. Another night up, 2am and I can’t sleep. I slept an hour the last day and half and just a hand full the nights before. I can’t put these hours to good use however, I am lost in the pressing dark.
I had no expectations of you when the month started, no plans, and you shared yourself so willingly. I fell into you and loved it. I am sorry I can’t seem to even get close to you. I type the words, I meet the word count but it is common, and flat. I don’t know if it will change. Please forgive me if I fail you.
Please forgive me my short comings.
Yours,
Tearful Writer
