Dear Henry,

Things haven't been the same since you left us. We've all been stuck here in this pit of misery and we're hoping you'll come back, but we're all too painfully aware that you never will, regardless of how much we want to. It's kind of sad, I guess, that you won't be ever be reading this either, but I still hope you do, because I'll be telling you what's been up since you've been gone. Then again, we've always been so damn similar that maybe somehow everything I write here will go to you anyway. Maybe you're already reading it, somehow.

***

Dear Henry,

It's cold, dark and lonely, mostly. People visit me, to check up on "Henry's best friend". They apologise for something that isn't even their fault and I try and tell them that it's okay, that it's fine and that they don't have to apologise or cry anymore, but the words choke up in my throat. I swallow tears that don't come out because I'm too numb most of the time, if not all the time, and I try and tell them I appreciate it, but even then, it's too painfully difficult to talk. I feel too tired, all the time, and I just want to sleep. I don't come out anymore and I haven't seen the sun since you died four days ago.

***

Dear Henry,

Talk of you seems to be like a ripple on a still lake; you would've thought that maybe after a week, it would have died down but as the news spreads, a few more people who care to cry join in this detached mass mourning. All your close friends are uploading pictures in memory, posting statuses of what's happened, sharing their stories of you in the small space of the world that they occupy, trying to spread word of your preciousness in their lives, either as a method of helping themselves cope in some way or the other, or, as the cynical side of you would say, for the likes and comments and attention. I sincerely hope it's the former. But even then, I feel… I'm sorry man, but I can't help but feel so pissed. Why are they saying all these things now? Why do people do that? Why can't they say these things when the words matter, when you're around to hear them, when it's around to stir emotions that haven't died seven days ago? The world would be a much, much happier place if that were the case, don't you think? I know, maybe I should see the glass half full, but it's so hard to do that when everything feels so cold and empty.

***

Dear Henry,

Our parents seem to be in pretty good synchronisation. Mine come to check with me every single day with tears in their eyes, of course, and I'm not surprised, because even after a whole month, I seem to not be able to do… well, anything. And of course, your parents are just as distraught, and I don't blame them. They're not the only ones who just can't believe that one horrible fact: that it's finally, and truly, over. Funny, but have I mentioned that it doesn't even hurt? In fact, it just hurt on the first day, and beyond that has been this inky black void. It's just… blank, dude. Blank. I feel so blank and empty and I can't even do anything about it. I wish you were alive, because the truth is, that would fix everything.

***

Dear Henry,

It's been three months, and those ripples have died out, just like I knew they would and just like I know they always will. Don't worry though, people haven't forgotten about you or at the very least, I hope that that's the case, because it feels like that b.s. we call wishful thinking.

***

Dear Henry,

This is the last time I intend on writing to you, so just so you know: it's been a year. People remember, once in a while, of their friend Henry. They stopped visiting you and they've stopped visiting me too, for now at least. I know they'll be back someday. Your parents have moved away a while back, the same time my parents moved away. I've barely noticed the days passing by and I seem to feel less and less the more time passes. I want to move on, I know you want me to move on, because we're so damn similar in every way and this last letter is to tell you just that: that I'm moving on. But even then, it's so hard. In a morbid way, it's mesmerising to see my own body in your grave.

Rasheed Khan is a hug monster making good music but terrible puns and jokes where he's probably the only one laughing. Ask him how to pronounce his name at [email protected]