I found your old diaries this morning. I sat on the rectory bench where we used to meet, the weak autumn sun in my face, turning the faded pages of a life filled with love and tears. Do you remember the tennis courts where we played when we were young? They’re overgrown now, covered in moss, dying leaves, curling crisps of bronze and gold. Their nets are torn to shreds, like my heart. I closed your book and thought of all the good times we had.
I miss you.