To My Polaris,

"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." Do you remember—the first words spoken between us? It was a rainy day after school. A friend and I were talking about the weather right before the steps, shielded from the rain. I could never understand how something so removed from the human condition can influence emotions. I argued that the idea that a phenomenon as common as rain showers can make one depressed is patently absurd. I was in the middle of that rant when you chimed in with that line. I was taken aback. I had never heard it before and it made me pause. From that moment on, I was intrigued by you. I wanted to know more about you and your thoughts on life. Your intelligence and depth of thinking captivated me. We started talking more and more, and I found myself looking forward to our conversations. You challenged my beliefs and opened my mind to new perspectives. You showed me that it's okay to explore, that not every little thing needs to be questioned and that there are things that may be beyond our understanding.

I don't know if you remember that moment, or if it was as significant to you as it was to me. But that quote was important to me. It has stayed with me ever since, and it will always remind me of the day I met you. It always goes this way with us, even now, years later. I spend too much time thinking, and you slowly but surely try to open my eyes to the beauty of this world. Beyond reason, the things achieved through the influence of the metaphorical heart can rattle the stars. You showed it to me, the light that shines in the darkest of places. Do you remember?

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds chirping outside, a familiar melody that brought a sense of calmness amidst the chaos that had become my life. I stared at the ceiling of the hospital room, trying to remember the events from yesterday, but it felt like grasping at straws. Flashes of fragmented memories floated through my mind, slipping away before I could hold onto them. The events from yesterday, what I had for breakfast this morning, and why I called for the nurse earlier—things like these are out of reach. The doctors say it's only going to get worse from here onwards. Eventually, my brain won't be able to form new memories, and the small, insignificant details will fade into darkness. The important things will remain, though, like a light leading me home. I see it. I do. The way you pout after my name falls like a reprimand from your lips. The way the stars sparkled in your eyes. Do you remember? It was your turn to pick the vacation spot, and you dragged me out to some national park in Minnesota. We camped out in a small clearing in the snowy woods there. You'd picked that place because of the lack of light pollution. Despite the cramped, rented RV, I was antsy. I'd never been a fan of creeping, crawling critters. You tried to reassure me, "Nothing can get in here. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I would beg to differ on that point. Even if they aren't bugs, there are things to be afraid of."

Nothing good lasts forever. Death. Losing those you desperately try to hold on to. I was never afraid of these things before I met you. I took a chance that night and did something I'd never done before, voiced my fears. I'll never forget what you said to me then. The light of the stars can take millions of years to reach Earth. At that time, the star could already have died. Yet for us, they're still burning bright. When someone dies, they live on in the hearts and minds of all their light touched. You looked up at the memories scattered across the sky. The lights danced in your eyes when you smiled. I see it. I do. The beginning of time—the ending. I wonder how many lives I have touched. There are so many things I wanted to do, so many missed opportunities, and so much wasted time. I'm not afraid of death. I just don't want to die with so many regrets. That's why I'm writing this letter. We've been friends since we were children, and we've been living together since college. More words have been spoken between us than could ever be counted. That's not what I regret. It's all the unspoken words—the unvoiced desires of moments past. They are the whispers in the darkness, the secret language that only we understand. They are the memories that we've shared, the moments that we've experienced together. They are the foundation of our bond, the glue that holds us together. As I write, I feel the weight of those unspoken words, the weight of our shared experiences. They are the things that I can't quite put into words, the things that I can only express through my actions.

Perhaps in another world, I could've said this in person. I can't trust my mind to remember all the words, but I trust you. I said it before. Do you remember? It's the important things that will remain. The way your eyes sparkled when you laughed, the way your hand felt in mine, and the way your voice sounded when you said my name. The late nights we spent talking about our dreams and fears, and the early mornings we spent watching the sunrise together. The adventures we went on, the mistakes we made, and the lessons we learned. The way you always knew how to make me smile, even on the darkest of days. The words that can't be written down here are intricately tied to you. I'll remember then when I see you. So come to me, my Polaris.

1 4 3.