CHAPTER ONE — The Last Words He Wrote
The last time I saw his written words was July 2025. The message arrived without softness, stripped of the warmth he once offered so easily. He said he was going into rehab. Then, almost as if he needed the words to sting, he added that he might never speak to me again.
I didn’t want to believe him. I told myself he was overwhelmed, that he was withdrawing from everyone, not just me. But the truth landed slowly, settling into the space he left behind: he had meant exactly what he said.
I left a note at his home—my handwriting steady in places, trembling in others—speaking of courage, healing, and the idea that vulnerability is not a weakness, but a doorway. I hoped he wouldn’t throw it away. I hoped he’d feel the sincerity in it. Sometimes hope is all we have when someone disappears without a goodbye.
I also packed away the painting I had made for him: a peace sign for the calm I wished he would find, and the word imagine, urging him to picture a life where he felt safe inside himself. I haven’t mailed it yet. The fear of rejection sits heavy in my hands. One day, I will.
In the weeks after he left, I sent him the gentlest messages—nothing loaded, nothing demanding.
Thinking of you.
Hope today is gentle.
You matter.
I didn’t know if he saw them. I didn’t know if he cared. Sending them felt like reaching across a dark room with a single lit match.
Eventually, the silence deepened. My messages went unanswered. My calls went nowhere. Then he blocked me—an abrupt finality, a digital door closing in a way words never could.
What stunned me wasn’t the rejection; it was the absence of even a small space for truth.
I wasn’t asking for promises or reconciliation. I wanted one simple moment—to know he was safe.
What he didn’t understand was this:
I don’t do confrontations.
I communicate.
I listen.
He once told me no one ever really listened to him. Maybe he never believed that I did. But I did—more deeply than he ever knew.
Now I understand this ache for what it is: a living grief. The grief of someone still alive but unreachable. A grief without a funeral, without closure, lingering because there is still breath on the other side of the silence.
I don’t believe in faith, not in a religious sense. But I am faithful—loyal, steady, consistent. I wonder if he ever knew what that looked like.
And despite everything, he is part of my story—whether he meant to be or not.
