To the one I can't call anymore:
I deleted the messages. That was the part I could do. Your name is still in my phone, one tap from calling, and it's been years. The phone doesn't know. It still files you under people I talk to.
Once a year it tells me it's your birthday. A half second where I think I'll call, then a half second where I remember. I'm good at the normal day now.
Here's the whole letter: I'm not waiting. I'm not holding on. I just haven't pressed delete, because pressing it means your name stops living anywhere. That's not a reason. It's the reason.
The other four I could still send, someday. This one has no address. That's how I know it's the last.
Anyway. Same day every year. Quietly. From here.