I died the night before my wedding. The first person to find my farewell letters was William—the man I had loved for eight years, the man who once crossed a thousand miles and spent everything he had to save me from leukemia.
He had once begged me to live. Years later, I discovered he was having an affair with Erin, the young intern at his company. I watched them kiss in the rain, found her belongings in his pockets, paid the bills for the apartment they shared, and still pretended I knew nothing.
In my letters, I wrote down every betrayal he thought he had hidden: the birthday lies, the midnight calls, the company gala where he chose Erin over me, and the tiny humiliations I swallowed because I could not let go of the man who had once fought so hard to keep me alive.
Then William opened the letter that broke him. I had finally become pregnant with the child we had always wanted—but miscarried alone after hearing him promise Erin that she was the only woman he wanted a baby with. I never told him. I only wrote: I don't want to be your burden anymore. Goodbye.
The last time William saw me was on our eighth anniversary. Erin called, and he left me alone halfway up Mount Ace as night fell. Hours later, while he searched frantically through my letters and called my phone again and again, someone finally answered. It was the police. They had found my body.
