Dear Caleb,

This house still smells like you. Not your cologne (not like you never wore any) or that weird deodorant that you swore by all throughout high school. It’s more like the laundry my mom would pull off the line, and a trace of cedar from that carved box you made in woods class and kept under your bed. It’s been years, and your room still holds its breath like it’s waiting for us to finish the conversation we never did.

I sat on your bed today. The quilt’s still rumpled in the corner, like your feet had to kick free while you slept. I remember sleeping over, weekend after weekend, when we were too young to question what we had, too young to know that growing up meant growing complicated. I used to bring comic books full of action-packed punches. You brought gummy worms and sarcasm that hit harder than any of the villains' fists. We made forts out of pillows and called each other superheroes.

And then I grew scared.

I’ve thought about that day so many times, it feels like a dream, but I remember the rain. That steady, soaking kind that muffles everything. You sat cross-legged on my floor and said, “I like boys,” and I wish I could tell you I smiled and said thank you for trusting me.

Instead, I froze. I backed away like you’d dropped something dangerous between us. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t stay.

I said, “You need to go,” and you did. Quietly and carefully. Like you were trying not to break something even more.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you said at the door. I didn’t understand what you meant then. I thought I was the one with no choice. That I had to protect something. My image, my comfort, my distance. But now I know that I had all the choices. And I chose fear. I hurt you. I know that now. I’ve known it for a long time.

You wrote to me once, and I didn’t read it. I buried it in my drawer like it could rot out of sight, but it didn’t. It lived in me. And when I finally read it this morning—six years later—you started with “I don’t hate you.”

Caleb, that fucking broke me.

You remembered the red candies and the stupid doodle I made of us as superheroes. You said you weren’t mad and that you understood. And then, again, “I didn’t have a choice.” But this time, I think I heard it right. You weren’t apologizing. You were being honest. You didn’t have a choice in who you were. I did, and I failed.

I think about that night when your dog died, and we were lying in the grass. You cried but tried not to let me see. I think about how your tears would fall from your lower lashes like dewdrops. Quiet and honest. I never told you that.

Jesus, there’s a long list of things I never told you. Like how you were the first person I ever trusted with the version of myself that didn’t have to be perfect or loud or right all the time, or how being near you felt like stepping into sunlight after days of rain. Sometimes, your laugh felt like permission to breathe, to be, to exist without armor.

I never told you that I kept the stupid movie ticket you gave me tucked into the back of a book I pretended to hate but only read because you loved it. I never told you I noticed when you started wearing that blue hoodie more often, the one with the frayed sleeve, because I once said you looked good in it.

I never told you I missed you, not just the week after you left, or the month after that, but every time something small happened that I would’ve told you. A new superhero movie, a bad joke, a moment where I was scared, and your voice in my head would've made it better.

I never told you that the night I pushed you away, I wanted to say, "Don’t go." I wanted to say, "I’m just scared." I wanted to say, "Please stay" because I need you.

But I didn't. I stood still and let you walk away.

Your mom says you live in San Diego now and that you’re working with kids and painting something about second chances. I hope that mural has color, light, and warmth. These were things I didn’t give you. I hope you found people who didn’t make you question if you were too much or too different.

I found the bracelet I made for you when we were twelve. I found our time capsule, our silly list: Climb a mountain. Get matching tattoos. Whatever happens, let’s not stop being us. I sat there and cried with it in my hands, like the words were holding me more gently than I ever held you.

This letter is me trying. It’s me telling you I’m sorry. I was a coward, and you deserved more than that.

I think about you. Not out of guilt, though that still lingers, but with something like the memory of a laugh you only hear in dreams. I think about how we were, and what I threw away, and how that letter from six years ago killed me. Long after I deserved it.

I don’t expect anything. I just wanted you to know that I love you. I always have and always will. Then again, I didn't have a choice. It's not hard.

Sincerely,

Tyler

___

Dear Tyler,

In all my twenty-four years of (barely) living, I never thought anything would top how disgusting your cooking is. You literally puked your emotions on a piece of paper. Don't do it ever again. That being said, wanna get coffee and catch up? There's someone I'd like you to meet.

Love,

Caleb