Letter to My Lost Friend

Hey, Eli.

It’s been a while since I last wrote to you. I don’t even know if this counts as writing to you, because I don’t really know where you are, or if letters like this somehow drift through the universe until they find the people they’re meant for. But if they do, I hope this one reaches you.

We played our last game of the season last night. You’d have hated it—rain the entire time, field a mess, everyone sliding around like they’d never seen mud before. And yet, as I stood there, soaked through my jersey, I couldn’t stop thinking of you. How you’d have laughed, how you’d have told us to stop whining and just play.

Caleb’s been trying to fill your spot as keeper. He’s good, I’ll give him that, but he doesn’t have your reflexes. Or your calm. The whole team still feels different without you—like we’re playing in an empty room where something important got left behind.

I keep replaying that last season we had together. The one that started everything and ended everything.

Do you remember the first day we met? Seventh grade, the first week of September. I was sitting on the curb outside Northbridge Middle, pretending I wasn’t lost, and you walked up holding a scruffy yellow flower. A chrysanthemum. You told me it meant happiness and friendship. I didn’t believe you. I told you flowers were for girls, and you laughed that quiet, patient laugh you always had, like you knew I’d grow out of that kind of stupidity one day.

I think you saw something in me before I ever did.

By high school, we were inseparable. You joined the soccer team, even though I knew you preferred painting in that old art room after class. You did it because I begged you to—said we needed someone who could keep their head when the rest of us lost ours. You weren’t fast, but you were sharp. You read the game like it was a language, always three moves ahead of everyone else.

There was this one match—God, I’ll never forget it. The semifinals against Greywood High. The field was practically a swamp. I’d been running for ninety minutes, legs burning, lungs about to burst, when I sent what was supposed to be a clean pass straight into nowhere. It was awful—wild, off-balance, spinning toward the edge of the field.

I thought that was it. We’d lost.

And then you were there, sliding through the mud like a phantom, catching that ball mid-spin, flicking it forward with a touch that didn’t even seem real. You dribbled through two defenders, both twice your size, and buried it in the corner of the net. The whistle blew, and the crowd went absolutely feral.

That was the moment, Eli. The one everyone still talks about. You became a legend that night.

But I remember more than the goal. I remember your face afterward, when we tackled you into the mud. You were smiling, but there was something else there too—something small and fragile, like a light that was already starting to fade.

I didn’t see it then. None of us did.

Things changed so fast after that. You started getting quiet. The jokes people made started changing, too—turning sharp, cutting in ways that weren’t funny anymore. You laughed them off, like you always did, because you didn’t want anyone to see that they hurt.

I still remember the first time I heard someone call you that word. I froze. I should have said something, but I didn’t. I just stood there, pretending it was a joke, pretending you didn’t notice.

But you did.

And every time someone said it, you flinched a little less, smiled a little tighter, spoke a little softer. Until one day you stopped speaking altogether.

I dream about that day in the cafeteria sometimes. You’d been sitting alone for weeks. Then you finally walked over to our table, tray in hand, just wanting a place to sit. Henry made that joke—the one that wasn’t really a joke—and the whole room went still before it broke into laughter. You looked right at me, Eli. Right at me.

I could have stood up. I could have told him to shut up, to leave you alone. I could have made it stop. But I didn’t.

I laughed.

God, I laughed.

And I hate myself for that.

After that day, everything unraveled. You quit the team. You stopped showing up to art club. Teachers asked about you; people shrugged. The world just kept spinning like you’d never been part of it. I told myself you needed space, that you’d come back when you were ready.

But you didn’t.

I don’t think any of us understood how alone you felt. Or maybe we did, and we just didn’t want to.

When I heard the news… when they told us… I couldn’t even breathe. There are no words for that kind of silence—the kind that swallows you whole, the kind that feels like it’s your fault.

I remember going to your house, standing outside your window because I couldn’t bring myself to knock. Your mom was watering the garden, same one where you used to pick flowers. She was crying, but she still smiled at me. Said you’d always talked about how I was the brother you’d chosen.

That wrecked me, Eli.

It’s been two years now. The world kept moving, just like it always does. People still laugh, the seasons still change, but something in me doesn’t. Every time I step onto that field, I see you—mud-streaked, fearless, chasing a ball that should’ve been lost.

We had our senior trip last month—Europe, can you believe it? Coach somehow got sponsors to cover half the cost. We were in Florence, standing on Ponte Vecchio at sunset, and someone brought up your name. Nobody laughed this time. Nobody made a joke. We all just stood there, watching the river glow gold, like maybe you were somewhere in that light, watching us back.

Chris cried. No one teased him. I think you’d have liked that.

Sometimes, I wonder what would’ve happened if things had gone differently. If I’d said something, even once. If I’d told you I admired you—that you were brave in ways the rest of us could never be. Maybe you’d still be here. Maybe we’d both be standing on that bridge, laughing about how bad I still am at Italian.

Maybe.

At graduation, they let me give a speech. I almost said no, but then I thought of you. I thought of that day in the art room, when I told you I didn’t get why you painted so many skies, and you said, “Because every color looks different when you let it breathe.”

You were talking about art, but I think about that line all the time. About how people are like that too—how we need room to breathe, to exist as ourselves, without someone trying to paint over us.

So I said that, Eli. In front of everyone. I told them the truth—that we all failed you. That silence isn’t kindness. That laughter can kill when it’s pointed at the wrong person.

Your parents were there. Your mom came up to me afterward, holding yellow chrysanthemums. She pressed them into my hands and said, “You were his best friend.”

And I wanted to tell her I didn’t deserve that title. But I just nodded, because the truth hurt too much to speak out loud.

Do you know what I learned, Eli?

That one small act—one word, one look, one moment of courage—can change everything. We spend so much time trying to fit in, to look strong, that we forget strength isn’t in laughter or silence. It’s in standing up, even when your voice shakes.

That’s what you did, every single day.

You stood up, even when the world tried to push you down. You smiled through storms that would’ve broken the rest of us. You gave me that flower, that first day, and I finally understand what it meant.

Happiness. Friendship.

And now, sorrow. Remorse.

It’s strange how something can mean two opposite things and still be true. I guess people are like that too.

Next week, I’m leaving for university. I’ve decided to study psychology—yeah, I know, you’d laugh at that. But I want to help kids like you. Kids like us. The ones who get lost in the spaces between jokes and silence. I want to be the person I wasn’t back then. The one who speaks up.

I don’t know if I’ll ever stop missing you. Some days, it hits like a wave; other days, it’s a quiet ache that never really goes away. But every time I see a yellow chrysanthemum, I think of you.

I think of your smile after that goal. I think of your laughter, soft and steady, like you already forgave me before I even knew I’d done something wrong.

I brought some flowers today. Left them at your spot by the old field. The wind caught one petal and carried it toward the stands. I swear I saw it hover for a second, like it was deciding whether to stay or go.

Maybe that’s you. Maybe you’ve been here all along.

Wherever you are, Eli—thank you. For the games, for the lessons, for the quiet bravery that still echoes in my chest.

I’ll remember. Always.

—Marcus