Page 112 of My Best Friend Is Broken
Liam
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Patterson,
I don’t expect you to read this letter. I don’t expect you to forgive me, or even to understand why I’m writing it. Dr. Greenstone suggested it might help me process some of the guilt I’ve been carrying for five years, but honestly, I think she’s wrong. Nothing is going to make this better. Nothing is going to bring Olivia back.
But I’m writing anyway, because maybe you deserve to know that not a day goes by when I don’t think about her. About the girl who was kind to everyone, who wanted to be a teacher, who died because of the decisions I made when I was eighteen and stupid.
My hand cramps slightly, and I pause to flex my fingers. The letter has taken me three hours to write, with multiple false starts and crumpled pages littering the floor around my desk. I never knew words could be this heavy, this difficult to arrange into something that feels even remotely adequate.
I want to tell you that it wasn’t my fault, that I wasn’t actually driving that night. That I climbed into the driver’s seat to protect someone else, to take the fall for somethingthat wasn’t my responsibility. But what difference does that make to you? Olivia is still gone. Whether my hands were on the wheel or not, she’s still dead, and you still lost your daughter.
So I won’t make excuses. I won’t ask for your forgiveness or your understanding. I just want you to know that I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry that my choices, whether I was driving or not, led to Olivia’s death. I’m sorry you had to sit through a trial and watch me be sentenced. I’m sorry that when you see my face, you only see the person who destroyed your family.
I’ve served my time. Five years in prison, which I know doesn’t feel like enough to you. It doesn’t feel like enough to me either. But I’m out now, and I’m trying to build a life that would make some kind of sense of all this pain. I’m working as a medical assistant, helping people, trying to save lives instead of taking them. I’m with someone who loves me despite everything I’ve done. I’m trying to be someone who deserves the second chance I’ve been given.
I know this doesn’t change anything for you. I know you’d trade all my attempts at redemption for one more day with Olivia. I would too, if I could. But I can’t bring her back, so all I can do is try to make sure her death wasn’t completely meaningless.
I think about her all the time. Not the girl from the accident, but the person she was before. The way she always had snacks in her bag to share with anyone who was hungry. The way she could make even the most boring school assembly interesting by providing sarcastic commentary. The way she stood up for people who couldn’t stand up for themselves.
She was good. She was so good, and the world is darker withouther in it.
I’m not going to send this letter. Dr. Greenstone said I didn’t have to, that the act of writing it was more important than the act of sending it. Maybe she’s right. Maybe this is just for me, a way of saying the things I’ve needed to say for five years but never knew how.
But if somehow you ever did read this, I want you to know, I’m sorry. I will carry the weight of what happened for the rest of my life. And I will try, every single day, to be someone who deserves to still be here when Olivia isn’t.
I’m so sorry.
Liam Walker
I set down the pen and stare at the words I’ve written. They feel inadequate, pathetic even. How do you apologize for someone’s death? How do you put into words the magnitude of that loss, the ripple effects that echo out forever?
But Dr. Greenstone was right about one thing, writing it has helped. Not in the way I expected, it hasn’t made the guilt disappear or provided some sort of cathartic release. But it’s forced me to actually articulate what I’ve been feeling, to stop running from the weight of it and instead acknowledge it directly.
Olivia Patterson died. I played a role in that, whether I was driving or not. And I’m going to carry that for the rest of my life.
But I’m also going to keep living. I’m going to build a future, love Nicky, help patients, find joy in small moments. Not because I’ve forgotten or because I think I deserve it more than Olivia did, but because staying broken forever doesn’t honor her memory any more than my five years in prison did.
She was good. She would have wanted people to be happy, to help each other, to build lives full of kindness and purpose.
I can’t bring her back. But I can try to be the kind of person she would have been proud to know.
The letter will go in my desk drawer with the others I’ve written. One to my younger self, one to Wayne, others to various ghosts that haunt me. I’ll probably never look at them again, but knowing they exist, that I’ve put these thoughts into words, somehow makes them easier to carry.
“Hey,” Nicky’s voice comes from the doorway, soft and careful. “You ready? The estate agent said to be there in twenty minutes.”
I look up to find him leaning against the doorframe, dressed casually in jeans and a jumper that makes him look impossibly handsome and accessible all at once. His eyes track to the letter on my desk, and understanding flickers across his face.
“Give me two minutes,” I say, folding the letter carefully.
He nods and disappears, giving me the privacy to finish this ritual. I place the letter in the drawer with the others, a collection of words I needed to say even if no one else will ever hear them. Then I wash my face, check my reflection to make sure I don’t look like I’ve been crying, and grab my jacket.
Nicky is waiting by the door, car keys in hand. He doesn’t ask about the letter, doesn’t push for details I’m not ready to share. Just reaches out and pulls me into a hug that says,I know, I understand, take your time.
“Okay,” I say eventually, pulling back and trying for a smile. “Let’s go look at our potential future home.”
The drive to Hampstead takes about twenty minutes, and with every mile, I feel the weight of the letter lifting slightly. Not disappearing, it will never fully disappear, but becoming more manageable, more integrated into who I am rather than defining everything about me.
“This is the one that has four bedrooms,” Nicky says as we navigate through traffic. “Big garden, recently renovated kitchen, close to the tube but on a quiet street.”
