Dear Steve,
I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because there's no one else to tell. Maybe because I know you'll never read it, and that makes it easier. Or maybe because if I don't spill this out somewhere, I'll rot from the inside out.
You always looked at me like I was solid. Like I had your back, like I'd never crack. Like I'd always be there. And I was. God, I was. Even when you didn't see me. Even when you were chasing ghosts and trying to bury the pieces of yourself you couldn't stand. I was there. Watching. Waiting.
And I would've stayed. I would've followed you into hell, Steve.
But you didn't see me.
You never saw me the way you saw him.
Christian. The soft one. The broken one. The one who made you want to be better.
He got your heart without bleeding for it.
Me? I gave mine willingly, and you never even asked for it.
Sometimes I wonder if things would've been different if I had met you first. If we had burned together before the world could snuff us out. But that's just a dream, isn't it? Another lie I tell myself at night when the silence becomes too loud.
Do you know what it's like to love someone so hard it hurts? To carry that love like a bruise on your soul? Every time you looked at him, it felt like a punch. But I still stayed. Because some part of me hoped—just maybe—you'd look back.
You didn't.
And now I don't know what's left of me that wasn't already hollow.
I'm tired, Steve.
Tired of pretending I don't care. Tired of being the backup plan. Tired of waking up to a world where you're not mine and never will be.
So if I disappear—if I vanish like smoke in one of those back alley shootouts—we both know it wasn't sudden. I've been dying quietly for years.
Don't blame yourself.
But please… don't forget me.
—Joe