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?