Jamie went back to Canada on a Tuesday, and the house was empty. I sat on the couch and cried the second night he was gone.
Oh my God, I thought, I am turning into that girl.
I worked a lot, and went home to Pittsburgh for a long weekend. Jamie called every night, and sent envelopes filled with photos. He never wrote letters, maybe just a quick note in an envelope that said, “Love you, Jamie” or “Wish you were here.” I loved the photos. I lined them on the mirror in the bathroom, or posted them on the nightstand next to the bed, just so I could look at him, photos he took of himself after a hike, shirtless, sweaty and grimy, at the top of a mountain somewhere in British Columbia, holding the camera above him at an angle, or photos of him with hi...
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