Feb 2
My dearest Tav, If you’re reading this, I’m already dead. (Dramatic, I know. Indulge me.) I won’t apologize. You’d hate that. But I will say this—you were right. About everything. Even when you were infuriatingly, catastrophically wrong. You asked me once if I regretted it. The ascension. The power. The way I carved myself into something monstrous just to survive. The answer is no. But I do regret this: that I could have loved you better. That I didn’t. Burn this letter. Or keep it. Frame it. Use it as kindling. I don’t care. Just know this—wherever you are, whatever you’ve become— I hope you’re free. And I hope you remember me. —A.