I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you. It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs... And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly. As for you,—you’d forget me.
You teach me now how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. Why did you despise me? Why did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what right had you to leave me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton? Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or Satan could inflict would have parted us, you, of your own will, did it. I have not broken your heart—you have broken it; and in breaking it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would you like to live with your soul in the grave?
Before you go through with this I want to remind you of September 7th 1988, it was the first time that I saw you. You were reading Less Than Zero and you were wearing a Guns & Roses T-shirt. I'd never seen anything so perfect. I remember thinking that I had to have you or I'd die... Then you whispered that you loved me at the homecoming dance and I felt so peaceful and safe because I knew that no matter what happened from that day on, nothing can ever be that bad, because I had you. And then I grew up and I lost my way, and I blamed you for my failures. I know that you think you have to do this today... I don't want you to, but I guess for I love you, I should let you move on.