I didn't finish the letter.
Not there.
Not in that room.
It felt wrong to stay any longer
—
like the walls were watching me, like they knew something I didn't want to admit.
So I left.
—
I didn't turn the lights off.
Christopher would've.
He hated wasting electricity.
Said small things mattered.
—
I slammed the door harder than I meant to.
The sound echoed down the hallway.
Too loud.
Too final.
I stood there for a second, staring at the wood like it might open again.
Like he might step out
—
quiet, careful
—
apologizing for making me wait.
—
He didn't.
—
The paper was still in my hand.
Crumpled now.
Ruined.
I didn't fix it.
—
The parking lot was nearly empty.
Late afternoon.
The kind of dull light that made everything look washed out.
Colorless.
—
I walked toward my car without really thinking.
Keys already in my hand.
Mind somewhere else.
Back in that room.
Back in his voice.
—
"…I don't think I was ever meant to stay."
—
"Stop,"
I muttered under my breath.
Like that would do anything.
—
"Jackson?"
The voice didn't belong to him.
—
I froze.
Slowly
—
I turned.
—
She was standing a few steps away.
Thin.
Unsteady.
Like the wind could knock her over if it tried hard enough.
Christopher's eyes.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Same blue.
—
I slammed the door harder than I meant to.
The sound echoed down the hallway.
Too loud.
Too final.
I stood there for a second, staring at the wood like it might open again.
Like he might step out
—
quiet, careful
—
apologizing for making me wait.
—
He didn't.
—
The paper was still in my hand.
Crumpled now.
Ruined.
I didn't fix it.
—
The parking lot was nearly empty.
Late afternoon.
The kind of dull light that made everything look washed out.
Colorless.
—
I walked toward my car without really thinking.
Keys already in my hand.
Mind somewhere else.
Back in that room.
Back in his voice.
—
"…I don't think I was ever meant to stay."
—
"Stop,"
I muttered under my breath.
Like that would do anything.
—
"Jackson?"
The voice didn't belong to him.
—
I froze.
Slowly
—
I turned.
—
She was standing a few steps away.
Thin.
Unsteady.
Like the wind could knock her over if it tried hard enough.
Christopher's eyes.
That was the first thing I noticed.
Same blue.
Just… broken.
—
"…You are —"
she hesitated, studying my face. "You're one of his friends, aren't you?"
—
Friends.
The word sat wrong.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
—
I could've said no.
Should've said no.
—
"…Yeah,"
I heard myself say.
—
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
Relief.
Actual relief.
Like I'd given her something she needed.
—
"I thought so," she said softly.
"He… he mentioned someone like you."
—
My chest tightened.
"He did?"
—
A small nod.
"Not much.
Christopher didn't talk about people often."
A weak smile.
"But when he did… I listened."
—
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I said nothing.
—
She stepped closer.
Too close.
I could see the way her hands trembled.
The way her eyes didn't quite focus.
Like she was holding herself together by force.
—
"It happened so suddenly," she continued, her voice uneven now.
"He didn't
—
he didn't tell me anything was wrong.
He never does.
He never did…" Her words stumbled over
themselves.
Breaking.
Reforming.
—
"He's always been like that," she added quickly, almost defensively.
"Quiet.
Sensitive.
His brother says he's just… dramatic."
—
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
—
"But he wasn't,"
she said, more firmly this time. "Christopher isn't
—
wasn't like that."
—
Silence.
—
She looked at me again.
Searching.
Like I had answers.
Like I could fix something that was already gone.
—
"You were close to him, right?"
—
The question hit harder than it should have.
—
Close.
—
My grip tightened around the paper.
The edges dug into my palm.
—
"…Something like that," I said.
—
Just… broken.
—
"…You are —"
she hesitated, studying my face. "You're one of his friends, aren't you?"
—
Friends.
The word sat wrong.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
—
I could've said no.
Should've said no.
—
"…Yeah,"
I heard myself say.
—
Her shoulders dropped slightly.
Relief.
Actual relief.
Like I'd given her something she needed.
—
"I thought so," she said softly.
"He… he mentioned someone like you."
—
My chest tightened.
"He did?"
—
A small nod.
"Not much.
Christopher didn't talk about people often."
A weak smile.
"But when he did… I listened."
—
I didn't know what to say to that.
So I said nothing.
—
She stepped closer.
Too close.
I could see the way her hands trembled.
The way her eyes didn't quite focus.
Like she was holding herself together by force.
—
"It happened so suddenly," she continued, her voice uneven now.
"He didn't
—
he didn't tell me anything was wrong.
He never does.
He never did…" Her words stumbled over themselves.
Breaking.
Reforming.
—
"He's always been like that," she added quickly, almost defensively.
"Quiet.
Sensitive.
His brother says he's just… dramatic."
—
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
—
"But he wasn't,"
she said, more firmly this time. "Christopher isn't
—
wasn't like that."
—
Silence.
—
She looked at me again.
Searching.
Like I had answers.
Like I could fix something that was already gone.
—
"You were close to him, right?"
—
The question hit harder than it should have.
—
Close.
—
My grip tightened around the paper.
The edges dug into my palm.
—
"…Something like that," I said.
—
She nodded.
Like that was enough.
Like she'd already decided what I meant.
—
"The funeral is tomorrow," she said after a moment.
"Small.
Just family and… a few people from college."
A pause.
Then, softer
—
"I think he would've wanted you there."
—
I almost laughed.
The sound nearly escaped before I could stop it.
—
Wanted.
—
Christopher wanted a lot of things.
He just never asked for them.
—
"…Yeah,"
I said instead.
"I'll come."
—
Her expression softened.
Grateful.
That made it worse.
—
"Thank you,"
she whispered.
Then, almost as an afterthought
—
"He always stayed in his room, you know.
Wrote things down.
Kept everything inside."
A shaky breath.
"I thought… I thought he'd grow out of it."
—
I looked down at the letter in my hand.
At the creases I'd put there.
—
"He didn't," I said quietly.
—
She didn't hear the way I meant it.
Or maybe
—
she chose not to.
—
"Take care of yourself," she said before turning away.
Her steps were uneven.
Uncertain.
—
I watched her go.
Didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
—
Christopher miller is dead.
—
The thought came back again.
Colder this time.
Sharper.
—
And somewhere beneath it
—
Something worse.
Something quieter.
—
Not an accident.
Not fate.
—
My jaw tightened.
—
I looked down at the letter again.
At his handwriting.
At the words I still hadn't finished reading.
—
"…You were close to him, right?"
—
The question echoed in my head.
—
I let out a slow breath.
—
"No,"
I muttered.
More honest this time.
—
"…I was the reason."
—
The words didn't sound real.
Not yet.
—
But they would.
—
Tomorrow.
At the funeral.
—
I opened the car door.
Sat down.
Closed it.
—
And for the first time since I walked into his apartment
—
I felt it.
—
Not guilt.
Not fully.
—
Something worse.
—
Anticipation.