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I wrote you a letter when the world ended. I guess that was a stupid idea, but I didn't know what else I could do. When I got to your house you weren't there, but the letter was, still in your mailbox with a bunch of junk mail and bills. I guess some people don't know the world is over. I guess I was the only one who thought to write.

I didn't really know what to do. I thought you'd be here. Your house looked the same as it always did. There was some food left, even, like you were just out for the weekend. I stayed for a while. There were no neighbors to ask where you'd gone, and all their houses seemed the same. Sometimes they'd gathered some things up in a hurry, but always there were things left.

I waited for you. I moved in to your neighborhood. I'd prepared. I could have stayed there indefinitely if I needed to. I wasn't planning on it but I could have--I was waiting and what else was there to do? But you never came.

Eventually--I didn't keep track of the days, and eventually the mail stopped coming--some of the neighbors came back. I asked about you and they told stories. You weren't doing well. You were drinking too much, gambling too much, smoking too much. You took risks. It was vague, but it made me smile. They wouldn't talk about why they left, what you were doing away, why you hadn't come back. They didn't know if you mentioned me because they didn't know who I was.

Someone gave me a map of where you'd been, and I set out to find you. I took my letter, just in case. When I got there they wouldn't talk about you, but they gave me more directions and I walked on further.

It must have been weeks before I found you, asleep on a torn old couch, looking so peaceful and happy, and who was I to interrupt? I left the letter on the coffee table next to the mostly empty bottle of bourbon, and I started back home.

I hope you're well.