29th January

Dear Enjolras,

It doesn't seem real. It doesn't seem like you're gone. It doesn't seem like your actually dead. I couldn't stop crying yesterday when the doctors pronounced you dead. I wonder if you know how you died, or if you just woke up and realized you were in heaven. You probably won't ever read this but I'll inform you on the tragedy anyway.

Yesterday, we were at a protest. We were in front of Palais Bourbon when things got out of hand. The protest soon turned into a riot and before any of us could do anything, someone started firing a gun. You shielded me from the attacker. You took a bullet for me and I want you to know that I would've done the same.

I guess the reason why I'm righting is because Jean Prouvaire and the rest of Les Amis thought it would be a good way to cope with my emotions. I thought it was ridiculous. But here I am, sobbing on the kitchen floor while I write to you. I'm also writing this because I'm actually a little scared that if I don't write to you, I'd probably become a hollow shell of my former self. I wouldn't dare tell Les Amis that I'm scared. They'd never leave me alone if I told them that. But I'm going to tell you things that I wouldn't tell anyone. This is because I love you. And you're dead.

It feels empty in my flat. The couch seems lonelier without you. I'd invite Les Amis over but they'd look at me with worry in their eyes. I don't want that. I can handle myself. I remember you would yell at me whenever I would say that and all I would do was smile. It frustrated you like crazy because you thought I wasn't taking you seriously. I was taking you seriously, honest, but it made me happy to know you cared and that you wanted to help me handle all the shit that happens in life.

I just wish you were here to help me with all this shit happening right now.

Love Always,

Éponine