I live in Britain. Always have done; but then again, I'm still young. I'm still allowed to have dreams, and in my dreams I sing from the peaks of the cold, cold mountains somewhere in Switzerland. I live alone.

You'll never know that I missed you in the first place. I was always afraid that you might, and I suppose I should be pleased that you never found out.

Then it changed. Lying on the hot, prickly grass, somewhere in rural France, she came. You were slowly pushed out. At 9am I'd turn to her instead of you. You weren't there, anyway; you were off building your life away from me. I doubt you even remembered me in those months.

She was always going to push you away. I knew her; she was never beautiful in the same ways as you. You were beautiful when I wrote about you. Hundreds of pages turning out of my hands as naturally as blinking. And when you left for your months, I realised that the you I had built on paper was far more beautiful than you.

That's why I needed a new you. And she just happened to be there when you weren't.

Even though I don't think of you often, and even though you probably never learnt my name, I still miss you, now and then. You'll never know, because you live in Australia now. But what hurts the most is that you never said goodbye. I have no choice but to turn to her at 9am.

Sometimes, when she hurts me, I dream you sit beside me and hold my hand in a way she never could. She never could, because she didn't come from my hands.

Don't let me forget you. I need to miss you sometimes. My hands will carry on loving you until I die. And one day, I'll see you again, be it the way I pictured you from the back, or be it a dream.

I hope it's a dream. Dreams seem to be the only place you remember me in.

Goodbye, L. I will miss you until I dream of you.