"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I’m not good with words but you were excellent. You make Mondays seem pleasant enough for me to set my alarm at 4am just so I could pack us breakfast. My dream was always inconstant and yours was a mystery. One day I wanted to be a speech therapist, the next maybe a teacher but what I know is that I always wanted to be by your side. That day, on 11th of March, your name was written on the Sunday newspaper along with your sister. I no longer get excited for Mondays. I no longer have dreams nor ambitions, until now I live with guilt and needed my own help that I wanted to offer others to. Maybe I need help, maybe I don’t. Maybe you’re not gone, maybe you’re just waiting for me at our usual place with Tuesday’s coffee and Monday’s gossip. I know to others your death is yesterday’s news but your name lingers with the hope that I wanted you to comeback. I’m angry, I’m so mad, so pissed you left. I hate you but I love you. Perhaps you’re still alive and I’m the one that’s buried 6 feet under. Maybe this letter is for me, the part of me that went away with you.