A Letter for James

The rain tapped softly against the window, a gentle percussion that made the world outside feel distant, cold, and unreachable. Lily sat at her desk, the flickering candle casting long, wavering shadows across the walls of the small, cluttered room. She had been staring at the same sheet of paper for hours, her pen hovering, untouched. The words wouldn’t come—not the ones she wanted, not the ones she needed.

The letter she was writing was unlike any she had ever attempted. It wasn’t the act of writing itself that weighed on her; she had written hundreds of letters before, to friends, to lovers, to distant relatives. No, this was different. This was a letter she never imagined she would have to write.

It was for him.

Her chest ached as her thoughts drifted to James—the boy who had been her companion through every season of life. The boy she had chased through fields of wildflowers, barefoot, laughing, and breathless with the joy of being alive. Her heart remembered the feel of his hand brushing hers, the warmth of his smile, the quiet comfort of simply being near him. But now he was gone and not gone in the soft way of moving away, not gone in the abstract way of fading memories and gone in the final, absolute way of death. Months had passed since the call had come, bearing the impossible news, and yet her grief still felt as raw as the moment she had first heard.

The letter was for his family. His mother, who still couldn’t speak his name without her voice catching; his father, whose presence seemed diminished, hollowed by the weight of sorrow; and his younger sister, who didn’t yet understand that some losses were permanent.

Lily took a trembling breath and finally pressed the pen to paper.

Dear Mrs. Montgomery,

I wish I could have been there. I wish I could have said the things I never found the courage to say, and most of all, I wish I could have told James that I loved him one last time.

Her hand shook, and the ink smudged beneath her fingers, but she kept writing. She had to.

James was more than a friend to me. He was my anchor, my refuge in both literal and emotional storms. He laughed in a way that could fill a room with warmth, and he cared with a depth that made the world feel safer, kinder, more alive. Losing him has left a hollowness in my chest, a silence so profound it echoes even when the house is full of sound.

I remember the small things—how he always left crumbs of chocolate on the counter, how he could turn the simplest of walks into adventures, how he knew the right moment to offer a hug, a joke, a shoulder. I remember thinking, even as children, that he saw me—not the version I wanted the world to see, but the real, unguarded me. And he loved me.

I don’t know if words can ever capture the enormity of what we’ve lost, but I hope these words can offer some measure of comfort. I hope they remind you that he was loved, fiercely and completely, by those who had the privilege of knowing him. I hope they remind you that his kindness, his courage, and his joy live on in all of us who carry him in our hearts.

I will never stop remembering him. I will carry our memories, our shared laughter and quiet conversations, with me. I will honour him in every small choice I make, in every act of love I can muster. And I will speak his name, often and proudly, so that the world knows he existed—and mattered.

She paused, her eyes stinging with tears that had been waiting months to fall. Folding the paper carefully, she pressed it together, the wax seal warm beneath her fingers. Her hands shook, not only from grief, but from the strange relief that came from having spoken to him one last time, even if he could never hear her.

For the first time in months, the weight in her chest felt just a little lighter. She could not undo what had happened. She could not bring him back. But in this small act, in this letter, she had given him something she couldn’t give while he was alive: the words she wished she had said, the love she had carried silently for so long, finally set free.

Outside, the rain continued its quiet rhythm, a soft reminder that life moved forward even when hearts were broken. Inside, Lily allowed herself a moment to breathe, to remember, to grieve—and to hold onto James, not as someone she had lost, but as someone whose memory would live on in every heartbeat, every memory, every word she wrote.