Dear Heck,
I've been sitting here, staring out at the half-packed suitcase by my bed, struggling to find the words I need to say. How do you distill something as vast as friendship into a few scraps of a letter? When the plane takes me to Paris, it will carry me away from the countless moments that stitched us together—moments I keep replaying in my mind, not ready to file them away as memories.
Do you remember those nights at the café? Of course, you do. Who could forget? The hours bled into each other as we threw our thoughts like skipped stones, letting them ripple across cups of lukewarm coffee. Those songs we shared, how we dissect those movie scenes together. I will miss those nights. We never needed to know more than just "Sara" and "Heck," did we? No histories, no expectations—only the unspoken understanding that what we shared was real. Pure, even. Sometimes, I think the things we didn't say tied us closer than the words ever could.
It wasn't just the coffee that kept me going on those nights, you know. It was you. Pancakes and bacon for dinner will remind me of you –– how you coin the word "brinner" for me … ahh, breakfast for dinner!
Even when I couldn't quite see the path ahead, you handed me courage in the simplest, gentlest ways. A quiet "you should go, while you still can" when I confessed my dream of Paris. A knowing smile dismissed my fears long before I could give voice to them. Heck, you keep saying I'm brave, but the truth is, I wouldn't have dared if you hadn't been there to remind me how to believe in myself.
And now I'm leaving, and it breaks my heart. I'm thrilled for what lies ahead, but there's a heaviness in realizing I won't see you perched across the table anymore, stirring sugar into a coffee you forgot to sip. I suppose I couldn't cling to both Paris and the familiarity of us. Life, as beautiful as it is, often demands we make impossible choices, doesn't it?
Can I say, I was sad when you told me about your engagement? Though my heart twinges selfishly at the idea of losing more of your time, I'm happy for you. Genuinely, unreservedly happy. She's lucky—whoever she is—to have someone like you at her side. I hope your marriage is everything you deserve and more. Stability, passion, laughter—the kind of life you always hinted at wanting, in the small hours when we got a little too honest about our hopes.
Still, I'd be lying if I said it didn't feel like an unfinished sentence, leaving like this, caught between words I never had the chance to speak. Perhaps that's the nature of goodbyes—they're never as neat as we want them to be. But maybe, somewhere, sometime, we'll see each other again. Maybe the chapter doesn't close here; maybe it's just a pause.
Until then, I'll carry what you've given me—the courage, the quiet kindness, and, above all else, the memory of what it feels like to be truly known, even without a full name or a past. Thank you, for all of it.
Goodbye, Heck. Be happy. Be well. And who knows? Maybe one day, in better circumstances, we'll find each other in a café again, trading stories that fit like old sweaters.
Your friend always,
Sara
From Sara to Heck
An unpublished letter from Sara to Heck, written on the cusp of a life-altering leap—packing her bags for Paris. Intimate, raw, and full of unspoken goodbyes.
Unpublished
"Goodnight, Sara. / 'Night, Heck"
by Justine Castellon and Mike Dee
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