Em,

I was reading one of the letters you wrote me that month you went away to San Francisco and you said something in there about how you like to think that the sky mirrors the color of our souls and how bright yours must be since the skies were always clear over there. The only clouds were those times you felt homesick you said. Well, I've been staring at the sky all night and thinking about that. I was thinking that there are too many stars during the night. Right before the sun came up it got really black though and the stars seemed to disappear for awhile; even the moon went into hiding. It got so dark and empty that I finally felt like what you said was true.

Reading the letters was stupid. Kinda felt like stabbing myself in the chest over and over again. I guess I was only doing it because today's the first day of school and just the idea of going back there now gives me this kind of sick feeling in my stomach. Everyone knows, and I know they'll all be giving me those scared, sorry looks, like they don't know what I'm about to do and they don't know what to say. I wish they wouldn't say anything 'cause when they try, all that comes out are these nervous little "sorry for your loss" type stuff and "Emma was such a nice girl, you must miss her so much" and "how's your mom doing?" and "it must be so hard for you, losing your twin" and all that and they don't know the half of it, they're only saying it 'cause that's what you're supposed to say and they don't really want to know either 'cause it wasn't them and they don't want to think it could be.

Anyway I get this feeling in my gut like I'm either gonna throw up or I'm gonna start throwing things and then I've gotta get out of there or I'll really do it. Last time someone said that to me I blacked out a little or something and next thing I know Mom is there, crying and holding on to my arms and saying, it's okay, Evan, calm down, it's okay, and I still don't know what happened except my hand was bleeding from this glass bottle they said I smashed and the guy in front of me looked like he was on the verge of bolting and I wanted him to except I still didn't know what happened. Stuff like that just drives me crazy. I wonder if it happens just 'cause you're gone and I don't think my brain is getting that or it's because I'm really losing my mind. Either way if it happens at school mom says they'll pull me out and make me stay at home but I don't want to because you always talked about senior year at Wilson, and besides you were once there and now I'm always looking for you in places you once were.

That's the thing they don't tell you, you know. How you're always looking and looking and looking, as if the person you lost can be found or something, as if the places where they once walked still have pieces of them hanging around waiting to be picked up or something. Em, I really do think I'm going crazy. People look at me like I've gone crazy but I don't know if it's something in my face or if its cause Mom keeps telling people that I've stopped sleeping, that I just sit up writing stuff all night. She doesn't know I'm writing you. I haven't told anybody 'cause then they really will think I've lost it.

Anyway this box, right, I keep it here on my desk and it's got all your letters and pictures and stuff you used to give me when we were little and that's where I put these letters when I've finished them. It's like you're really getting them almost. And so last night I was thinking about school and stuff and about going there and I was thinking about the locker you had last year and how you didn't like it 'cause it was next to that kid Walter and Walter was always such a clown to you, always stealing your stuff and putting trick toys in it to scare you and I was thinking maybe I'll try to get that locker next to him and maybe I'll start putting things in his to make him think it's from you or something because he was always scaring you but then I thought you'd hate it if I did that and besides that Walter kid doesn't deserve it. He was a clown but I always thought he was just doing that to have a reason to talk to you. But I liked thinking about it for a minute, and in my head I was picking out stuff that I'd think you would have picked out and for a minute it was almost like you were there. I forgot for a minute.

That's the other thing. The worst part of it all is when you remember again. You see, you can go along, feeling empty and cold and like you care about nothing anymore, and it's always there, this kind of constant feeling that something's dragging on you and everything's stuck and blue and there's really no reason to get out of bed anymore and you're always thinking about what'd it be like just to be dead too. That's bad, but then when you forget – that's this whole other kind of misery. 'Cause for one minute you forget why you feel that way. You forget why the world is blue and why your chest is always tight and hollow and why you don't sleep anymore. It happens in a split second and in that split second there's no such thing as death or loss or anything and I could just turn to you, it feels like, and you'd be there. It's only a second or two and then it hits again, like a hammer blow and that's the worst. Waking up is the worst. I think that's why I don't sleep anymore. 'Cause waking up is remembering all over again.

But anyway about the box. I was thinking about Walter and the locker and you and senior year and I almost forgot that you weren't there. When I remembered, I think I blacked out again – I do that a lot now I guess – because when I came to, there was mom and dad and mom was crying as always and dad had his arms around me like he was trying to hold me down or something. And mom kept saying, maybe he shouldn't go, maybe he shouldn't go, and dad was telling me that it was okay, that it would be okay. Look at him, Sal, he can't go like this, mom kept saying and I kept trying to tell her that I was fine, that I could go, but her crying was making it hard to think and I was trying to figure out why my face was so tight and cold. Then I realized I was the one who had been crying and the wind coming in through my open window was freezing the tears on my face. I swear I'm going crazy, Em, I really am.

So when they finally left, I started to think about why I'd blacked out and it was 'cause after I forgot and remembered again that you were gone I realized that I couldn't remember what your voice sounded like. I could have watched a video or listened to your voice messages I guess but it still wouldn't be in my head and that's what scared me so bad.

So then I decided I would read your letters and maybe then I could get it back and I did, except it was a bad idea. Because then it all came back – the way you'd chew on your braid when you were studying and that gross thing you'd do with your eyes when you wanted to annoy me and the way you called me Evanski to piss me off and that whiny sound you'd make when you were saying 'come on, Evan!' 'cause I didn't get your joke or because I didn't laugh when you twisted my ear. And also how you wrote me every day when you spent that month with aunt Kath in San Francisco last year 'cause I broke my ankle and you wanted me to be able to experience it too and how you punched that kid in fifth grade for calling me a wuss and how you would always take the rap for me with mom and dad when I screwed up. And your voice. It came too. I could have lost it again except that thing you said about the sky stuck with me and then I ended up looking at it, trying to see it the way you did. Thing is, I don't think blue skies will ever be mine, Em. I think blue skies will always be yours.

It's almost six now. Mom is up, I can hear her in the kitchen. She won't have to make a big breakfast for us, Em. Just something for me, something I won't eat and something she'll probably cry over after I've gone. I think maybe I'll take it with me, chuck it to Pep or something once I'm outside. But that dog, Em – sometimes I think it's crazy too. None of us will go in your room, nobody but that damn dog. It sits in there, whining and sniffing around your bed as if you're hiding from him or something and he won't come out till he hears me heading outside, as if you'll be there. Sometimes he sits at the end of the driveway, just sits there and waits, like he used to do, when you would go off on for your bike rides. To him, you're still riding out there somewhere – he never got that the mangled bike they brought us back that day was your way of coming home. I don't know if he ever will. Turns out you can't explain death to a dog. Don't think you can to people either. You just kind of drift along until something changes I guess, still looking down empty roads and searching letter boxes until you find some kind of peace. Or maybe you don't. I don't know. Maybe you never do.

The sky is all hazy grey now with these streaks of orange and red coming through. The sun looks angry. Makes me feel sick. I have to get up from here but I can't make my legs move. I've been sitting here since yesterday.

I just forgot again, Em. I was going to write that you'll have to wake me up if I fall asleep in class. I'm crazy, Em, I really am. And now this paper is getting all wet. They don't tell you that you turn into a human faucet when you lose someone. That's the stuff they should tell you.

Mom's calling. I guess it's later than I thought. Hold on –