Dear Adelaide,

I'm not wholly certain why I'm reaching out. I could explain it in a thousand ways, but none of them would be satisfactory to you, and I think we both know that. I was seldom satisfactory to you. You will berate me for that, but I think we both know it is an accurate statement regardless of what you prefer to think. Our professional relationship was strained, and neither of us can attempt to deny this simple fact. It is the truth, and there is nothing more to be done. I remember when things were over, the cigarette you passed me, the look in your eyes. "We can't let this define us now", you'd said, but how can it not? It is the only thing that has defined me for the past years that I have forgotten to accurately count.

You were always colder than me, weren't you? It's fitting that you would move on by now, that you would be past the poinf of caring now. I think they said that was why we were partnered together. You didn't care, the studious Dr. Adelaide, and I was the man who was foolish enough to care too much and put my heart on my sleeve, even then, even there. I couldn't stand the blood, and you could. I did the work you didn't want to do and you did the work I couldn't bear to. I know you think me weak, Doctor, but I do not care. What we did haunts me. I suppose I just want it to haunt you as well. I send this email to you not as your colleauge, then, but as a ghost in the machine. Maybe I am a drama queen. Or king. It does not matter because I am still angry, Adelaide, and I hope this letter reaches you.

Hoping this letter reaches you well,