My dear friend:

It's been three years, and still not a single day goes by when I don't think of you. Of anything about you: your smile, your imitation of the British accent, your red nose, the spots all over your skin. Sometimes I just think about your face, or rather it suddenly pops in my mind, because I can't seem to forget at all, and I can't seem to stop missing you. It doesn't hurt anymore, I think. But the longing is still the same as usual, the longing to see your face, to hear from you, to have someone confirm that you are, indeed, travelling, and that you are coming back to us one of these days. I'd hug you so hard, and then we'd gossip as usual about boys, and I'd have three years of gossip to fill you in and find a way to paint your nails and make them look pretty despite the constant breaking, and I'd still wish I could be like you, trying to gain weight instead of losing it, and just being around you, and being better, closer friends.
I do still wish, however, that you refrain from looking at me, 'cause I am sure I'm a pretty boring person and there are things about me I wouldn't want anyone to watch, but we're all like that, right? And perhaps you are looking, and you're with me while I type this, and I just want you to know that I love you as much as ever, and that I hope that we meet again sometime.
I'll take care of myself, too, and hope that if I ever get cancer (and I probably am), I'll be as strong as you were.

I love you.

Etiquetas: de mis afectos, en inglés, escritura automática, la muerte, los de adentro, querido diario, tradición desviada