Dear Phoebe,
Aden…

I have something to confess and this is no lie. But I have waited ten years too many to say what I have to say to you and now such words are better left on paper. Do you know the number of drafts I’ve gone through, only to have it wrinkled and washed in my pant pocket? Can you guess the number of times that I have written these words in a letter addressed to you, only to have it mailed back to me? Each time I saw you sit at the front of the classroom, each time we took a test together, and each time you brought a new patient for me to see. I know that you already know what I have to say, but I hope that you can bear with me for the first time, and leave the wrinkling for me.
I’ve always known.

I know your story better than I know why Mrs. Patridge comes running into my ER every day screeching about how the apocalypse got her.
You’ve always been there.

I know that I listened to you the best in the 11th grade when you told me that you wanted to go to prom with Thomas Riley but went with Reese Schwartz instead because Thomas Riley had already asked Samantha Ross. I listened to your perplexed voice in despair, despair because I was not strong enough to help and because my heart grew heavier each time you mentioned Thomas Riley’s name. Twenty. Twenty times in four hours while we sat outside on the levee behind the school, missing fifth period U.S. History with Mr. Gurney. Each time I reached into my pocket to give you the bracelet and first draft of this message: Thomas Riley.
You always listened to me the best.

I know that I had made you laugh the most senior year when I botched the graduation ceremony by knocking down the platform and sound system. Had I had not thought that it would be awesome if I walked without glasses, you would not have laughed so hard. My heart fluttered not with embarrassment, but with disappointment when I had lifted my face out of the grass to catch the laugh lines that would spread cross yours — and instead saw Michael Morris whispering in your ear. I knew that it was best that the letter and necklace in my robe pocket had been soaked with mud.
You always knew how to make me laugh.

I know that I kept my promises to you the most because I never once let my phone out of my sight, in case you had an emergency. I kept my promise that I would never leave you alone. I kept my promise that I would win the the fight with you. I kept my promise that I would respect your wishes. I kept my promise when I drove out at three in the morning to take you to the hospital – twice. Once for a 6-lb 4-oz. Chey Morris and again for 7-lb 12 oz. Travis Fostner. When I saw that you still kept their fathers’ names on their birth certificates, I decided that it was best that the letter and earrings I prepared should forever stay in the glove compartment of my car.
You always kept your word.

I know that I still admire your radient smile, no matter how tired and ragged you think you must look. I still smile to myself when I catch whiffs of your fruity hair when you walk by, no matter how much baby vomit it may be soaked in. Don’t blame yourself that this took so long, it was never your fault. Had I expressed my feelings the first time around, you might not have had to suffer as much. You might have known what it means to be loved, to be taken care of. You wouldn’t have believed so many lies.
Thank you so much Aden.

Please let me write for you the happy ending that you deserve.
I was so excited for our dinner tonight. But…

I love you Phoebe. I’ll be a man this time around and say it. I won’t back out and you’ll hear these words come out of my mouth, you’ll read these words in this letter, you’ll feel these words etching into your heart. Today, I’ll do it. And together, we’ll finish this story.
…it’s never my fault.

Love,
Aden

“Dr. Carter?”

“…Yeah.” he took a deep breath and listened to the sharp, steady ring of the monitors tracking a no longer beating heart, “…time of death: 1918.”

Goodbye Phoebe.

He reached into his back pocket with one bloody, surgical-gloved hand and crumpled.