Letter #4— 12.27.2020
Toronto, ON

Youseff, it’s me Bella. I just came to check on you. There are parts of your letter that seem to write themselves new every time I come back here. I’m not so good with memory either. Yet I also can’t wait to forget. I hold myself gently. I chant to myself this feeling will pass. Like a Bible your words always find me. And look, you’re a great writer and all but I’m afraid to let you know that you’ve already ruined it. You’re my favourite writer of all. Don’t be dead by the time that I find you. I hate when that happens to me. Youssef, the chances of meeting you here are very unlikely, but I write to you anyway.
How are you anyway?