 March 1980
 Dear Dean,
 I was thinking about shells today. I saw a woman with a shirt that had them, and I remembered the beach, and you, and this box. I went back and read through all the letters, and for the first time, in a long time, I wasnât sad about it â not in the same way.
 Iâve been so tired lately. Iâm so tired of being angry, and sad, because that wasnât the point. Iâm sad because Iâll never get to tell you certain things again. Iâm sad about that, but Iâm not sad like I was when you left. I think I held onto that too long. I confused it with loving you, and those arenât the same. Being sad about the things I miss isnât loving you. It never was. Loving you was so much bigger than that. .
 I donât think I can stop loving you. I think itâs a part of me now, and itâs never leaving. It makes me who I am, and I used to think this crippled me, but I donât think it does anymore. Loving you has given you back to me. Iâve missed you. The old you. You never really came home, and I understand that now, and I know it wasnât your fault or mine or anyoneâs. It was just circumstances we couldnât avoid, but Iâve realized that just because we ended the way we did doesnât define what we were before.
 To have those memories back is such a precious thing. To have that part of you back with me â itâs unimaginable. I was thinking about shells, and I was thinking about that day at the beach and I can remember sitting on the blanket looking at the water, and you asked me what I was thinking.
 I was thinking about how  afraid I was that I was never going to love you as much as I did then. That the moment was going to get washed out, that I would never be able to experience what it was like to know that I loved you as much as I did againâŠ
 Iâm sorry that things didnât work out the way we wanted them to. Iâm sorry â Iâm sorry we werenât as equipped to deal with the hand we got. The fact that we didnât get to do the little plans hurts more than the big ones, sometimes. It wouldnât have mattered about a house or the island. Sometimes I stop myself at work and realize Iâm never going to sit in Vanâs noodle house with you, and I donât know exactly â Iâm so terrible at letters, Dean. Iâm glad you never had to read them when you were in Vietnam, they were all so terrible and boring and wordy.
 I think â I think that, the point of it all, is that the moment at the beach? I had never really understood who I was until then. Thatâs who I am. That person, and there, right there, next to me, that was you. Thatâs who you are.
 Itâs so wonderful to know that I didnât lose you. That we were always right where we were supposed to be the whole time. This whole time I thought Iâd lost you, and there you wereâŠ
 Memories are good that way. I can remember us, and I can keep living. I can keep going and always know right where to find you when I miss you.
 I miss you all the time.
 I want you to realize this someday. All of that about us. You donât â you donât have to be guilty, and I know you are, and I understand why everything happened the way it did. It just happened. We just â it just happened, Dean, and itâs alright. Iâm alright.
 Iâll be okay.
Once, you told me it didnât seem right to say goodbye. Not really. I thought Iâd have to â I thought Iâd have to let go of everything I loved about you, but I donât, and you were right, and wouldnât you be pleased with yourself to know.
The truth of it has never been clearer to me, my darling. And you are, always, my darling.
Yours, Cas
See you then.
