I regret the life I lived.
Or rather, I regret the way I lived my life
For this life where I met my friend
Is a life worth exchanging a million universes for.
Twenty years have passed since I lived my life the way I did. An orphan unloved and unwanted, I was found and taken in by Monsignor, the closest thing I can call a family. I was ten years old then.
Twelve years have passed since I gained and lost a friend, the closest I ever got to the feeling of concern, care, love, and affection. Gentleness.
Had I found real strength, I would have been convinced to abandon the way I lived my life and make a fresh start with my friend. Had I been brave enough, I would have dropped everything for my one and only friend.
But I didn't.
I was scared.
If I were really, truly a friend, I would have stopped her demise. And if I was really, truly the man the Chapel made me and believed me to be—fearless and reckless—I would have joined her by now.
But I'm still here, thirty and writing a letter addressed to the fire. Not even to my friend. Not even to Monsignor. Not even to the Chapel.
Had I lived differently, would it change anything?
If I did not live the way I did, would I have even met her?
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