Dear Blake,

I'm sorry that I'll never be that man that you hoped I'd be.

Adam crumpled the paper up and threw it onto the over flowing pile. His waste basket filled with unfinished letters. Every day since she left he'd write to her, a sentence or two before throwing it out. Sometimes he'd write twenty unfinished letters, sometimes more and sometimes less. The first week was the hardest. When he would catch himself turning in midsentence to glance back at her for her input, only for her to no longer be there.

Blake,

I hate it. I hate that stupid bow of yours.

He crumpled that one up to.

He ripped the mask off his face and threw it across the room. He didn't understand why he does this to himself. Why does he hold onto her when she has moved on? She got a new partner—a whole team. She was happier without him. She must not even think about him either.

Adam ground his teeth together grabbing the beer bottle beside him and he too threw that across the room. It shattered against the wall, the liquid spraying out and soaking the wall and dripped to the floor. Adam snarled grabbing another object, this time a lamp, and he threw that to. Nothing was safe from his rage; that burn in his chest and the pounding in his ears.

He knew exactly what he wanted to write to her, but he never would. It could be because he was scared, but that wasn't it—not truly. He just didn't want to write it because he knows she'd never see it. She'd never get to reply to it.

He kicked his sofa with lackluster, his limbs feeling heavy as his eyes pricked and grew wet. He fell to the ground as if his legs had given out and clutched his hair and covered his eyes.