#letter confession

The last of the many letters Mike never sent to Will, written in the quiet moments between shared rooms and avoided eye contact.

About loving someone for years without knowing how to name it — and the fear that telling the truth might ruin everything.

(Set just one day before the beginning of S5)

Almost (we were never just friends)

Dear Will,

I’ve never been good at talking, especially about my feelings, so I thought I’d try writing — even if I don’t really think you’re ever going to read this letter, like all the others I’ve written to you before… or if I’ll even finish it.

You’re probably helping my mother set the table for breakfast right now.

I know what I’m about to write will sound stupid, but I’ve memorised the little path you take every morning: the hour you wake up, the sound you make on the stairs, how you lay the plates out from right to left and not left to right… and the way you avoid my eyes.

And I’m sure it’s me — that I’m the one who did something to ruin things between us. And I know I’m also the one who should speak up, but I’m not that brave, and that’s why I’m here, writing this… whatever this is… instead of secretly spying on you from the stairs, as I’ve been doing these past months.

I’ve always known it was something different with you. It just didn’t click right away.

I remember the frustration when you went missing and no one seemed to believe you were still alive as strongly as I did. I remember asking myself why nobody had the same need I had to find you, to hold you and feel that you were okay. How strange it felt to notice that Lucas didn’t feel the urge to hold your hand, or that Dustin didn’t blush when you looked at him the way I did — or how everyone but me failed to notice those small (huge, for me) changes in the sound of your voice and in the light in your eyes.

I used to ask myself why I seemed to be the most terrified of losing you, and why the others didn’t feel that same protectiveness towards you. I got so frustrated and confused about it, because for me, it was everyday life.

I wasn’t able to connect the dots right away, and I hate myself for that.

I think I’ve loved you for a lifetime, but since it was the most natural thing I’ve ever felt, I just felt it — I never tried to understand why.

Looking back now, I understand that I could’ve done better, especially in the last couple of years. When you moved, I didn’t know what that gut-wrenching pain was about. My first guess was always El, because it had to be — it made the most sense. I was never that good at digging deeper into my emotions.

That's when I started writing you letters by the way, letters I couldn't bring myself to send, for a reason I didn't understand at the time.

It got weirdly real the moment I landed in Lenora, and even if I was finally holding her hand, I was still feeling that goddamn void. Only now do I realise it was because you were so close, and yet we were so distant.

I was awful to you that day. I know it seemed like I didn’t care, but it was really something else.

I was dealing with the disturbing realization that El wasn’t either the problem or the solution.

I was scared that you had found new friends, new best friends; that we were too far apart to ever grow close again; that I had to talk to El even though I didn’t know exactly about what; and that you seemed so nervous every time I was around that I thought you didn’t want to see me anymore.

And then it hit me — the moment you asked, “What about us?” Like lightning through a storm. I realised the words that were coming out of my mouth were a huge lie, but once they were out there was no way of taking them back. And again, I hate myself for that.

We’ve never been just friends. At least, not to me. You were always something dearer — something I couldn’t explain until that exact moment.

And I know it wasn’t up to you, but sometimes I still wonder what could’ve been if I had answered differently, or if you had reacted another way.

I think we both noticed the ups and downs after that. Something changed. I saw it in your eyes. And believe me, I was about to tell you the truth at least a hundred times — but I was too much of a coward.

The first time was in your room. I was so nervous. The situation itself wasn’t easy, but mostly it was because I couldn’t hold it in any longer. It was like those words at the skate park had opened a gate, and all my feelings for you came crashing into me. I needed to talk to you, but at the same time I was terrified you’d run away, or never be my friend again, or think I was a freak.

I think I actually started to say something that time. I didn’t lie — it just wasn’t the whole truth either. But at least I didn’t lie. You were so beautiful it was distracting, so much that I forgot the world was ending. I forgot what was possible and what wasn’t. I forgot about the problems we still had to solve, about El, about my dad, about the shame inside of me.

I think you caught me gazing at you, by the way. It was so embarrassing, but I couldn’t make myself look away. I was so goddamn close to telling you — but I couldn’t.

Then we almost died.

Then there was that time in the car, when you showed me the painting. I was stupid enough to think you had decided on your own to draw that for me — that it was your vision of me.

(That was the moment I understood why, when El told me in one of her letters that you were drawing something for a girl you liked, I got strangely irritated.)

But it wasn’t from you. And I felt so stupid for letting myself think — even for a second — that maybe I was the person you liked. And so guilty for not being happy that my girlfriend had commissioned a painting for me.

That guilt was eating me alive. I wish I could make my heart beat for El the way it beats for you.

Then you started saying all those beautiful things about how I made El feel, and it got even worse (it’s not your fault), because all the things you said were exactly the way you make me feel — but I wasn’t even crossing your mind. So I lost hope and tried to hide it as best as I could, even though I know my protectiveness towards you — and the sparks you make me feel — betrayed me a couple of times.

Then we almost died again.

And I felt like the sequence of events in our lives was going exactly the opposite way of what was happening in my mind and soul. Every time something inside me clicked and made more sense, something outside would go wrong. I tried to ignore it, but at a certain point it almost felt like a sign — like someone or something was trying to tell me I shouldn’t feel this way, that it wasn’t right, that if I kept feeling it, things would keep going wrong. So I tried to suppress it. It wasn’t easy, but I had to.

I felt like my love for you was destroying the world. And even though there was nothing I wanted more than to love you, and not doing so was killing me, I couldn’t risk everyone’s life for what I wanted.

So it all started again, from the beginning. Only this time, I was aware. I am aware.

I still feel like I’m burning up when you sit next to me on the couch, when my mum sends us to do chores together, when we go to the hospital to see Max and the waiting room is full so we have to sit close and our knees brush. I still get that huge, shameful feeling when my dad catches me looking at you, or when we go to El’s and I still can’t bring myself to tell her the truth — even though I know she would understand, and I’m sure she already suspects something.

I think I was about to confess this to you at least five times in the last two days.

But I can’t. I still don’t know if I’m able to do it. Saying everything out loud would make it all real — all the mistakes I’ve made, all the wasted chances, all the lies, all the times I brushed your hand with mine on purpose and tried to make it look like an accident when it wasn’t. And I don’t know if I can handle that, if the world can or if I’m just hiding behind this stupid excuse.