There’s no easy way to say this, so I’ll just say it:

Those fuckers Maxim and Mikhail know how to fight.

Their mom has a solid aim.

I got arrested.

Surprise! I’m now in prison.

It fucking S U C K S in here. And my chest hurts like a bitch all the time. But what sucks even more is that I don’t have your pretty face and your sweet voice to make my day anymore. Which leads me to my next point. You changed your phone number? What the fuck? I expect a letter ASAP with your new number.

Okay, my chest is starting to hurt too much to write. I expect to see your cute little butt on Saturday when we can have visitors.

Congratulations btw, you now have a prison pen pal.

From your one and only,

M.

P.S. Marry me? We can have conjugal visits.

A lone tear drops onto the paper, making the rough black ink bleed all over the page. He really did try to get in touch with me. He didn’t forget about me.

I suck in a sharp breath. Roman told me Marcus and Greg took the letters he wrote, and I never thought twice about what he said. I could’ve asked about them, or checked if he took them so the police wouldn’t connect the dots to him so easily. But as always, I’ve been too caught up in myself.

I pick up the next letter.

Hello Isabella,

I’m mad at you, so you don’t even get any nicknames right now.

Firstly, what the fuck? I’ve sent you four letters now and you haven’t responded to a single one of them. No, “Hi Mickey, I missed you so much. Can’t talk right now!” or “My darling Mickey, oh dear! Are you okay?” from you? Literally nothing.

Nada.

Zilch .

Come to think of it, there’s no ‘secondly’. You haven’t answered my calls or visited me. Even this fucker named Damien came to visit me. I almost turned down his visit in case you showed up, but guess what? You didn’t.

WHY.

WON’T.

YOU.

ANSWER.

ME?

Someone tried to stab me today, and they came real fucking close to killing me because I could barely move my arms. Do you even care?

Oh, and in case you were wondering, I’m healing great after my wound got infected. Thanks for asking. Really appreciate that, Isabella.

I’ll probably forget about how mad I am at you if you respond. But you better have a really damn good reason for the radio silence.

The only time I get to talk to you is in my dreams, and that’s not good enough for me anymore. I want the real thing. I want the real you.

I fucking miss you, Bella.

Respond to me. Please.

Yours,

Mickey.

P.S I’m still serious about the conjugal visits. Say the word and I’ll get it arranged ASAP .

There’s no stopping the tears streaming down my face.

We both suffered. I haven’t stopped for one second to think what it was like for him for the past three years. I’m not the only one who felt like life was ripped away from me, and I’m so unbelievably selfish for being so goddamn self-absorbed.

The next letter I pick up is dated earlier this year.

Are you okay? Thunderstorm was really bad, and I know how scared you get.

Please reply so I know that you’re alright.

He never forgot about me. He didn’t even try to move on, and here I was, spending the past three years trying to forget about him.

There’s no order to the letters, because the next one I open is two years old.

Someone thought it was a good idea to play Disney on TV in a room full of thugs. We watched Mickey Mouse. It made me think of you.

Everything makes me think of you.

Why didn’t Mickey give me these sooner? Why didn’t he remind me about them?

I just won two and a half grand in a bet. Where do you want to go? I’ll take you anywhere as soon as I’m out of here.

I chuckle through my tears as I pick up the next letter. My heart crumbles, the padding falling out and the cracks splitting wider.

8160 hours.

365 days.

52 weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen you.

Happy birthday, Isabella.

I’ve been learning how to sketch portraits. It’s not much, but the drawing at the back of this page is my gift to you.

I love you, Princess.

I wish I could hear your voice. Or that you’d write to me. That would be my birthday wish. That’s the only thing I want.

I choke on a sob, giving up on trying to keep my tears from spilling onto the parchment. He’s bled for me while I’ve cried for him. We’re nowhere near even. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, he’s willing to bleed for me until the day he dies, and he’ll spend the rest of his life keeping the tears out of my eyes.

I have an idiot cellmate who gave me an early birthday present in the form of a prison tattoo. Can you guess what it is?

That must be Rico.

Why didn’t I try harder to find him? Why didn’t I even consider the possibility that he might be in jail?

That was stupid. I don’t know why I asked you to guess.

I’ll just tell you the answer: I wanted to carry a part of you.

It hurts.

It all fucking hurts.

There must be at least a hundred letters in this pile.

I don’t even know why I still bother sending you letters. You probably don’t even read them. You’re eighteen now and most likely far away from Greg’s house. I’ve been lying in bed wondering what you’re doing now, which colleges you applied to, and what you’re planning on studying. Or if you are still deciding what you want to do.

You’re so smart, I know you’ll be amazing at whatever you put your mind to.

I knew you’d worry about paying tuition, so I’ve been saving for when you decide if you want to go. And if you don’t want to go, that’s fine too. I just want you to know that it’s there when you need it.

Just respond whenever you can, I guess.