Derek writes love letters. They’re not to anyone. It’s just a habit he picked up in New York, when he was alone and going crazy with the feeling of being hemmed in by all that pavement and glass that didn’t give a shit about anyone, alive or dead. Laura hadn’t counted. How could he talk to her? She’d hate him if she knew.
They started off being to the idea of Kate, the person she was supposed to be: someone a little better than him, hotter and older and smarter. But with a soul, this time. Someone who’d never hurt him, and who’d know what to do about the mess that’s suddenly his life. Love you, can’t wait to hear from you, he used to sign them, and imagine the replies she would write. He even came up with a name, but it could just as well have been “not-Kate” for all the meaning it held. Amanda or something. He doesn’t even remember. He dropped it such a long time ago.
They’re not about Kate anymore, or Amanda. He doesn’t want hero worship, and he writes to someone who’s flawed, like him. Who maybe doesn’t have all the answers, but who’d try. The important thing is that Derek can tell this person anything - anything - and it’s okay. They still love him.