The Last Letter - by Bibi Ire

Emily Reed had always believed in forever. She grew up in a small town in Oregon where sunsets bled into the mountains and everyone knew everyone by name. She was the kind of girl who believed in second chances, love notes, and late-night phone calls that lasted until dawn. And Jason Miller… Jason was the boy who gave her every reason to believe. They met in their sophomore year at college—both studying literature, both lovers of quiet places and loud music. Their love was the kind that didn’t need grand declarations. It was in the way he’d pull her chair out, how she remembered to add three sugars to his coffee, the way their eyes always found each other in crowded rooms. It was easy. It was right. After college, they moved into a tiny apartment on the edge of Portland. They didn’t have much—an old couch from Craigslist, mismatched dishes, and a leaky bathroom sink—but they had dreams. Jason had just started teaching high school English, and Emily worked at a local publishing house. They planned everything together. A wedding by the lake. Two kids, maybe three. A golden retriever named Max. A home filled with books, jazz, and the scent of pancakes on Sunday mornings. But then the coughing started. At first, Jason brushed it off. Too much chalk dust, he joked. But soon the fatigue followed. Then chest pains. Then the hospital visits. The diagnosis came on a gray Thursday in November. Cardiomyopathy. Rare. Progressive. Terminal. Jason was 28. He stared blankly at the doctor, nodding numbly. Emily held his hand the entire time, not realizing how hard she was squeezing it. That night, they sat on the apartment floor in silence. She cried. He didn’t. Weeks passed. Jason changed. Not all at once, but slowly. He started pulling away—emotionally, then physically. He stopped going to her work events. He didn’t join her at the family holiday dinner. He smiled less. Talked less. Until one morning, Emily woke up, and he was gone. No note. No goodbye. Just absence. She called his phone. Straight to voicemail. She called his brother, who didn’t say much except, “He’s with family. He needs space.” Emily didn’t understand. Weren’t they supposed to face this together? Hadn’t they promised? Heartbreak isn’t always loud. Sometimes it creeps in like fog—blinding, cold, and slow. Emily spiraled. She stopped eating. She quit her job. Every day, she sat by her window waiting for a text, a call, a sign. It never came. Six months passed. Then one afternoon, a letter arrived. Handwritten. No return address. Just her name on the envelope, in Jason’s unmistakable script. Her hands trembled as she opened it. --- "My Dearest Emily," If you're reading this, it means I didn’t make it. I hope this letter finds you in a place where the pain has softened, even just a little. I know you hate me right now. Maybe forever. And I understand. I left without explanation. I disappeared. I became a ghost in your story, and that will forever be my biggest regret. But please, know this: I left not because I stopped loving you… but because I loved you too much to let you watch me die. You deserved laughter, not hospital monitors. You deserved life, not waiting rooms. I wanted you to remember me full of light, not with sunken cheeks and wires in my chest. Every day I was gone, I missed you. I kept a photo of us by my bed—your birthday in that ridiculous diner hat. You looked so alive. You were my life. I’m sorry I didn’t let you say goodbye. I just didn’t think I could bear it. But if I could say one more thing, it would be this: Please, live. Laugh. Love again. Fall in love with someone who makes you feel safe, whole, and seen. Build that family. Write your stories. And when you look up at the stars, smile for me. Because somewhere, I’ll be smiling for you. Forever yours,Jason." --- Emily held the letter to her chest and sobbed until the sun disappeared behind the hills. That night, she slept without dreams—for the first time in months. The days that followed weren’t easy, but they were healing. She found comfort in the small things: her favorite tea, warm rain, walking barefoot in the grass. She began volunteering at a youth writing center, and one of the students reminded her of Jason—the same hunger for words, the same quiet strength. Years later, Emily met someone new—Daniel. He was patient, kind, and he never tried to replace Jason. Instead, he respected that part of her story. On the day of their wedding, Daniel surprised her by having a tiny inscription placed inside her ring: “Smile for him.” And she did. Not because she forgot. But because she remembered. Because love—true love—doesn’t die. It lives in letters. In quiet moments. In the way the heart still beats, even when broken.

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