Dear Nick,

I mailed you a letter yesterday. You should get it by Saturday.

Yesterday the optometrist whose office is next to the toy store came over to ask our opinion on a pair of $2000 glasses he put together for a display. He’s cute. I mentioned that to some of the girls during shift change, and Hannah, who is all of 18 years old, said, “Yeah, but you have a boyfriend.”

I laughed. “So? I’m not married. And actually, I have a boyfriend and a half.” (I don’t know why I said this. I have no clue.)

“Half?” Kendyll looked at me like I was crazy.

I managed to get something out that sounded awkward and stilted. “My best friend has brain cancer, and when he’s better, we’re going to be together, maybe. We’ll see.”

“Does he know that?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

Hannah’s eyes got big. “Whoa, what a live you lead! It’s like a movie or something! I’d love to have your life!”

I laughed and left the store. But this is what I should have said. You don’t want my life. You don’t want to be in an empty relationship just because you’ve been together for so long and because everyone expects it. You don’t want you best friend, whom you love dearly, to suffer from brain cancer. Because every day you don’t hear from him or his family (who are suffering so much) the hole in your heart gets a little bigger and a lot heavier. And after weeks of crying yourself to sleep, you find yourself grasping at straws of hope. You listen to voice messages he sent. You read entries in your journals written after those great days that left your soul smiling. You talk to his other friends, who remind you that there is always hope, prayer, and love, and that you need to remember those things to get you through, because the thought of functioning in a world where he doesn’t exist is the most terrifying thought of all. You try to keep a normal appearance, so you smile, act happy, and do the motions, but inside, that heavy emptiness is pulling you downward and in, making the hope and love and prayer that much harder to get to.

I’d love to be 18 again.

Love,
Holly