Dear David,

No, wait. I don’t have the right to call you that anymore.

Dear Wash,

…Somehow even that feels like cheating.

Dear Washington is too formal, and so foreign.

Dear Agent Washington is not my voice anymore, not my words. It doesn’t fit.

So.

Dear David,

You’re not going to read this. I don’t know where to send it or even if there’s anyone to send it to. But it needs to be written. I need it to be written.

I was never one for diaries, but I never had problems talking to you. It seems natural, then, to write this letter instead of a diary, instead of talking to someone about it. Instead of trying to talk to you, because it’s too late for that.

This is not a letter of apology, but I have to say it anyway: I’m sorry. I have to say it with every breath I say your name, because I feel it with every thought of you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I left. I’m sorry I left you there.

But this isn’t an apology, it’s a confession.

I love you.

I have for a long time. But I was too busy telling myself I didn’t to be able to say it to you when I should have, when I needed to.

And then you just - you didn’t see. You never questioned and you always followed orders and I got so angry with you and I thought this couldn’t be love, not really. I was too angry at you for not believing me. I figured, if there was love, you’d see it. You always saw it.

You were always a bad liar when you denied it. When I pushed you to deny it.

I love you, David.

I love you, Wash.

That’s the point of this letter. The only point. The confession that made me write it.

I’m in a desert now. Heat blazes during the day and the nights are unforgivably cold, and all I think about is that there’s a part of me that still loves you. All I can think about is that it took me this long to realize what the feeling was. That I missed my chance.

Would I have left if I had admitted it to myself before? I don’t know. Probably. I love you, and I’m not strong enough to sit by and watch you suffer.

I heard about that. Even outside the project, rumors of malfunctioning AIs, agents going crazy, loose descriptions of a guy in gray and yellow armor acting out while on mission, they reached me. I heard, and I was glad I left. Glad I didn’t have to see it.

That didn’t last long. Guilt settled in, as it always does.

I still love you, Wash. David.

I don’t have anywhere to send this, so I’ll bury it. Bury it deep in me along with this letter, bury it in this sandy tomb I’m here to explore. Bury it so far that if I meet you again, alive, this letter won’t matter. I might not even remember it.

Bury it shallow enough that, if you meet me when I’m dead, you can find this paper and know that I did, at least, love you once. For a long time.

Know that I’m sorry I never said it in person.

Love,
Connie