It was 11:47 p.m. when my phone lit up with his name.
Jay calling.
I was halfway through a rerun of The Office, half-asleep on the couch, one sock missing, coffee long gone cold. I saw the screen. I hesitated.
We hadn’t spoken in six weeks.
Not because we were fighting. Not because we’d fallen out. But because life — that slow, relentless tide — had pulled us in different directions.
Jay had moved to Portland for a job in sustainable architecture. I stayed behind in Chicago, buried in freelance deadlines and the quiet loneliness of a too-big apartment. We texted here and there — memes, concert throwbacks, the occasional “miss you, man” — but the calls had stopped. The deep talks. The 3 a.m. rants about life, love, and whether pineapple belongs on pizza (he said yes; I still hate him for it).
So when his name flashed on my screen that night, I stared at it.
And I didn’t answer.
I told myself I’d call back in the morning.
He’s probably just drunk. Or homesick. Or wants to talk about that band we saw in 2012.
I smiled at the thought.
Then I turned off the TV, left my phone on the couch, and went to bed.
I never called back.
Three days later, I got a message from his sister, Maya.
“Eli… can we talk? It’s about Jay.”
My stomach dropped.
I called her immediately.
And that’s when I heard the words that would live in my chest forever:
“He’s gone. Car accident. Two nights ago.”
Two nights.
11:47 p.m.
The time he called.
The time I didn’t answer.
I collapsed onto the floor, phone still at my ear, the world narrowing to a single, suffocating thought:
He called me. And I didn’t pick up.
The funeral was quiet. Rain fell in slow, steady sheets over the cemetery. Jay’s parents held each other like broken branches. His best friend from college gave a eulogy about stargazing and terrible karaoke. I stood in the back, soaked, silent.
I didn’t speak. I didn’t deserve to.
Because all I could think about was that one missed call.
Had he known?
Was he scared?
Was he calling to say goodbye?
Or just to hear a friend’s voice before the road turned black?
I replayed every memory like a film reel gone haywire.
The time we got lost on a road trip and ended up at a diner in Indiana, eating pie at 2 a.m.
The way he laughed — loud, unapologetic, like joy was his superpower.
How he showed up at my door after my breakup with Lena, holding a tub of mint chocolate chip and a Lord of the Rings trilogy.
“You don’t get to be sad alone,” he’d said.
But I had let him be alone.
In his last hour, he reached for me.
And I didn’t answer.
For months, I drifted.
I stopped returning calls. Ignored texts. Quit my freelance work. I walked the same route every day — past the coffee shop where we used to meet, the park bench where we’d skip stones on the lake, the bar where we toasted to “not being adults yet.”
I left voicemails on his number. Just to hear his voice.
“Hey, it’s Jay. Leave a message.”
I’d say, “It’s me. I’m so sorry.”
Over and over.
Then, one rainy afternoon, I found a box on my doorstep.
No return address.
Inside was a notebook, a mix CD labeled “For When You’re Ready,” and a letter in Jay’s handwriting.
Hey Eli,
If you’re reading this, I’m probably being dramatic again. But Maya made me promise — if anything ever happened to me, she’d send you this. I told her it was silly. But she said, “You never know who needs to hear it.”
So here it is.
First — stop blaming yourself. I didn’t call because I was dying. I called because I was alive. I’d just finished a project, had a beer, and suddenly missed you like hell. I wanted to hear your voice. That’s it.
Second — I know we’ve been out of touch. But that doesn’t mean we weren’t friends. You were my brother, Eli. Not by blood. By choice.
Third — I left you a list. In the notebook. Places we never got to go. Songs we never got to hear. Things I wanted us to do.
I need you to do them.
Not for me. For you.
Life doesn’t give second chances, man. But it does give reminders. This is yours.
Go. Laugh. Eat terrible food. Call someone you love.
And if you ever feel alone?
Play the CD. I’m still there.
Love you forever,
Jay*
I cried for an hour.
Then I opened the notebook.
Page after page of scribbled dreams:
- Hike the Pacific Crest Trail (even just a mile).
- Try that Ethiopian place on Clark. They have coffee ceremonies.
- Go to Iceland. See the northern lights. Take stupid selfies.
- Call Mom more. She worries.
- Fall in love again. Even if it hurts.
And on the last page:
Answer the phone, Eli. Even if it’s late. Even if you’re tired. Someone out there might just need to hear your voice.
I started small.
I called my mom.
I visited the Ethiopian restaurant. Had a coffee ceremony. Laughed with the waiter.
I booked a weekend trip to Wisconsin — not the PCT, but a forest trail with a view that made me feel tiny and grateful.
I played the CD.
The first song was “Fix You” by Coldplay.
I sobbed. Then I danced.
A year later, I stood at the edge of Crater Lake in Oregon — one of the places on Jay’s list.
I held my phone in my hand.
I dialed his number.
It went to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Jay. Leave a message.”
I smiled.
“Hey, man. I’m here. I did it. And I miss you. But I’m okay.”
I paused.
“And I answered the call.”
Then I hit send on a text to my new friend Marcus, who’d been asking me to go camping for weeks.
“Hey. You still want to go this weekend?”
And for the first time in a long time…
I meant it.