Chapter Text
It’s 10:00 p.m. on a Friday night, and Will is painting.
The clock above the sink clicks too loudly every second, the kind of sound you only notice when you’re alone long enough for silence to start pressing in on you. Ten. Zero. Zero. The radiator rattles like it’s clearing its throat, and the apartment smells faintly of paint thinner and old heat, metal and dust and something burnt that never quite goes away. Outside, somewhere far below his window, a car horn blares and then fades, swallowed by the city.
Will stands in front of the canvas longer than he means to, brush hovering, wrist aching slightly from holding it in the air. The painting isn’t anything. Not a face, not a place, not even a memory he can point to and name. Just color layered over color, blue that went too dark when it dried, yellow dragged through it until it dulled into something almost green. He hadn’t planned it. Planning makes things mean something, and lately he doesn’t trust meaning.
He finally presses the brush down and drags it across the canvas, the bristles scratching softly. The sound makes his jaw tighten. He adds more paint, like he can fix it if he just keeps going, like he always used to believe.
That’s when the knock comes.
Three sharp raps against the door, close together, deliberate enough that his whole body reacts before his mind catches up. His hand jerks, and the brush slips, leaving a crooked line of blue he didn’t mean to make. For a second he just stands there, heart kicking hard against his ribs, telling himself it’s nothing. New York is full of noise. People knock on the wrong doors all the time.
Then it comes again. The same three knocks, steady, unmistakable.
A cold weight settles in his stomach, heavy and sudden, like something dropping straight through him. Nobody knocks on his door at ten at night. Not friends, not neighbors. He wipes his hand on his jeans without realizing it, smearing wet blue across the fabric. The paint feels cold against his skin.
He waits another second anyway, because some part of him doesn’t want to move. There’s a feeling in the room now, thick and awful, like the air has shifted just enough to warn him. He’s had that feeling before. Right before everything went wrong. Right before the world split open and never quite fit back together again.
Still, he walks to the door.
Each step feels too loud. He tells himself he’s being dramatic, that he’s twenty years old now, living alone in New York, not a scared kid anymore. His hand closes around the knob. It’s cold. He opens the door.
No one is there.
The hallway stretches out empty and yellow-lit, quiet except for the hum of the lights. For half a second, relief almost hits him hard enough to make him dizzy. Then he looks down.
A thick envelope rests on the floor, leaned carefully against his door as if whoever left it wanted to make sure it didn’t fall over. His name is written across the front in dark ink.
To Will.
His throat tightens instantly, the words hitting something deep and familiar. He knows that handwriting. He’s known it since he was twelve, since folded notes passed under desks, since maps and comics and letters drawn in the margins of homework. The letters still tilt slightly to the right. The pen still presses too hard in places, lighter in others, like the person writing wasn’t paying attention to how much force they were using.
Will crouches slowly, knees stiff, as if sudden movement might shatter whatever fragile balance he’s in. His fingers hover over the envelope for a moment before he lets himself touch it. It’s heavier than it should be, thick with paper, with intent.
He flips it over.
From Mike.
The bottom drops out of his chest.
It isn’t panic, not exactly. It’s worse than that. It’s the quiet certainty that settles in, heavy and absolute, like he’s stepped off solid ground and is already falling. He hasn’t talked to Mike in two years. Not really. Not in any way that mattered. There were calls at first, voices stretched thin across distance, conversations that kept circling the things neither of them could say. Then fewer calls. Then none. Life happened. Will moved. Mike stayed. Silence filled in the spaces where words should have gone.
Mike doesn’t send letters.
Mike has never sent letters.
Will brings the envelope inside and locks the door behind him, the click sounding too loud in the small apartment. He leans back against it for a second, breathing unevenly, the envelope clutched to his chest like he needs to hold it there to keep himself upright. His hands are shaking now. He can feel it all the way up his arms.
He carries it to the table and sets it down carefully, like it’s something fragile. Or dangerous. He stares at it for a long time.
For a moment, he considers not opening it. The thought is sudden and desperate, sharp enough to hurt. He could leave it there. He could go back to the canvas, to the meaningless colors and the safe quiet of pretending. He could sleep. He could wake up tomorrow and maybe this feeling would fade, maybe it would turn out to be nothing.
But he already knows it won’t.
He opens the envelope.
Inside are smaller envelopes, neatly stacked. Fourteen of them. One on top, unmarked. Beneath it, thirteen more, each one numbered carefully in the same familiar handwriting. One. Two. Three. All the way down.
His vision blurs before he realizes he’s crying.
He takes the piece of loose leaf paper of the top first. His fingers fumble with the flap, clumsy, unsteady. The paper inside is folded once, twice. He unfolds it slowly, like if he drags this out long enough the words won’t be there when he finally looks.
They are.
Will,
If you’re reading this, then I am not alive.
I stared at that sentence for a long time before writing it down, because it feels too blunt, like it doesn’t leave room for anything else. But I don’t think there’s a better way to start. If I try to soften it, I’ll just keep going and never actually say it, and then this won’t exist at all.
I’m not here anymore. I won’t ever be here anymore. However you need to read that.
I don’t know where you are when you’re reading this. I keep trying to picture it and getting it wrong. I hope you’re somewhere safe. Somewhere quiet. I hope you’re not alone, but I wish I could be the one with you.
I keep thinking I should explain myself right away, like people do when they know they’re about to hurt someone. But every time I try, it turns into something that sounds like an excuse, and I don’t want this to be that. I don’t want you reading this and thinking I’m asking for forgiveness or understanding, because I’m not sure I deserve either.
There’s a lot I never said out loud. Some of it because I didn’t know how, and some of it because I was afraid of what would happen if I did. I don’t think I realized how heavy that was until it was already too late to put it down.
I’m sorry you had to find out like this. I went back and forth about sending this at all. Part of me thought it would be easier for you if I didn’t leave anything behind. Just silence. But that felt worse somehow. Like disappearing twice.
That’s why there’s more than just this letter.
There are thirteen envelopes with this one. They’re numbered. I need you to read them in order. I know that sounds stupid, but please just trust me on this one thing. If you skip ahead or stop halfway through, you’re going to miss something, and I don’t want that to happen.
You don’t have to read them all at once. I don’t even think you should. I don’t know how you’re going to feel after each one, and I don’t want to pretend I do. Just… don’t throw them away. Even if you want to. Even if you hate me by the end of it.
I’m not writing this to hurt you. I know it probably will anyway. I just didn’t want you left guessing. I didn’t want you filling in the blanks with things that aren’t true, or worse, blaming yourself for things that had nothing to do with you.
I don’t know what you’ll think of me after you’re done reading everything. I don’t know if you’ll ever think about me again after tonight. I guess that part isn’t really up to me anymore.
I’m sorry I couldn’t say any of this when it mattered.
— Mike
Will forces himself to pick up the first envelope.
Envelope One
Will sits at the table because he doesn’t trust himself to stand anymore.
The envelope feels light in his hands, thinner than the first one, like Mike didn’t want to weigh him down all at once. The number written on the front is small and careful.
1
His thumb rubs over it until the ink smears a little. He doesn’t know why he does that. Maybe because it feels wrong to leave it untouched. Maybe because it’s proof that Mike’s hand was here, pressing pen into paper, alive.
He opens it.
1
This one is about El.
I didn’t want to start with this. I went back and forth a lot about where it should go, but everything else kind of leans on it, whether I like that or not. So this is first.
Will swallows hard. His throat feels tight already, like his body knows what’s coming before his brain catches up. El’s name sits there on the page, familiar and sharp, cutting straight through him.
I keep thinking about the last time I saw her. I know everyone probably does that, but mine gets stuck. It just loops. I see her face, and then I see all the things I didn’t say, and then it starts over again.
Will’s fingers curl into the edge of the paper. He remembers El laughing once, loud and bright, the sound of it filling a room. He remembers the way Mike used to look at her like he was afraid of dropping something fragile.
Sometimes I think that if I had just said it, if I had said I loved her out loud, maybe she would’ve stayed. Maybe it would’ve been enough for her to hold on to. I don’t know if that’s true, but my brain won’t let it go.
Will’s chest tightens painfully. He sucks in a shaky breath, his eyes burning. The thought hits him hard, ugly and sharp. Mike blaming himself. Mike thinking words could have saved her. Mike thinking he failed her.
I hate myself for thinking that, because it makes it sound like she was weak, and she wasn’t. She was the strongest person I knew. But guilt doesn’t really care about being fair. It just keeps asking what you could’ve done differently until you don’t know how to answer anymore.
Will presses his free hand flat against the table, grounding himself in the solid wood. His breathing is uneven now, shallow, like the air in the room has thinned without warning.
The worst part is that I don’t even know if I could’ve said it the way she deserved.
His vision blurs. He has to blink hard, tears spilling anyway. He knows exactly what Mike means, and the knowing feels like something cracking open inside him.
I told myself for a long time that I loved her. I said it enough times in my head that it almost felt real. Or maybe it did feel real, just not in the way it was supposed to. I don’t know. I’m still not sure.
Will squeezes his eyes shut. His shoulders shake once, then again. He thinks of all the moments Mike hesitated, all the pauses that felt too long, all the words that came out stiff and careful, like they were being tested before they were allowed to exist.
Every time I imagine that moment, every time I picture myself saying it to her, something in me stops. Like I’m standing on the edge of something and I can’t make myself step forward. And I hate that about myself, because it feels like proof that I failed her when it mattered.
A quiet, broken sound slips out of Will before he can stop it. He presses his sleeve to his mouth, trying to keep himself from falling apart completely. His chest aches, heavy and tight, like it’s filled with something he can’t breathe around.
I know her death isn’t my fault in the way people usually mean when they say that. I didn’t cause it. I didn’t push her there. But knowing that doesn’t make the guilt go away. It just makes it louder.
Will wipes at his face with shaking hands. His skin feels hot and raw, his head pounding. He hates how much sense this makes. Hates how familiar it feels.
Some mornings I wake up and the first thing I think is that I should’ve been better. Braver. More honest. And then I remember that I wasn’t, and that she’s gone, and I don’t know how to separate those two things.
The words blur together as tears spill freely now. Will bows forward, elbows on the table, the paper trembling in his hands. El’s name, Mike’s handwriting, guilt layered over guilt until it’s impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.
You need to keep reading after this one.
I know it probably doesn’t feel like it right now, but this isn’t the worst of it. I put these in the order they’re in for a reason. I couldn’t change it, even when I tried. If you skip ahead, it won’t help. It’ll just make everything messier.
I’m saving the heavier things for the end.
Please don’t change the order.
The letter slips from Will’s fingers and lands softly on the table.
He folds forward again, breath hitching, shoulders shaking as the reality presses down on him from every direction. Mike is gone. El is gone. And all that’s left is this—paper and ink and guilt that never found a place to land.
Through blurred vision, he looks at Envelope Two.
He doesn’t want to open it.
He already knows he will.