I unfolded the note, my hands trembling slightly. Jake’s handwriting was the same—sharp and hurried, as if his thoughts were racing to keep up with his pen.
Paul,
If you’re reading this, it means I chickened out. Or maybe I just ran out of time. Either way, I’m sorry.
I never should have let something as dumb as Laura come between us. That’s on me. But that’s not why I wanted to meet.
I found out a while back that I lost the bet.
My breath caught, and I clutched the note harder.
I have cancer, Paul. The bad kind. The kind where doctors talk about “making you comfortable.” I thought I had more time, but life’s funny that way, huh?
I wanted to see you one last time, to laugh about our silly bet, to tell you I never stopped thinking of you as my brother. But I was afraid. Afraid you’d be mad. Afraid you’d pity me. Afraid I’d break down in front of you.
So I left this instead.
I know you, Paul. You’ll sit here, finish that beer, and wonder why I didn’t just face you. The truth is, I wanted to remember us as we were—two kids who thought they had all the time in the world.
Take care of Laura. Take care of your daughter. And don’t waste time holding grudges over things that don’t matter.
You won the bet, Paul. Now do something good with the time you have left.
– Jake
I read it over and over, my chest heavy, my throat tight. I set the note down, glancing at the untouched pint of beer in front of me. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to drink it or throw it against the wall.
Jake was gone.
And I never got to say goodbye.
I didn’t go home right away. Instead, I found myself driving aimlessly, Jake’s words echoing in my mind. Eventually, I pulled into the park where we used to race each other as kids. Sitting on one of the swings, I stared at the empty basketball court where we spent countless summers.
I thought about all the time we wasted. All the years we could have had if we’d just been a little less stubborn, a little more willing to forgive and forget.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Laura’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“Hey,” she said, her voice warm and full of concern. “How’d it go?”
I swallowed hard. “Jake’s gone.”
There was a long pause. “Gone?”
I told her everything, reading her Jake’s note, my voice shaking. After a silence that felt like forever, she finally whispered, “Come home.”
Later that night, as I tucked our daughter into bed, she blinked up at me sleepily. “Daddy, why are you sad?”
I paused, then gently brushed a curl from her forehead. “I lost a friend today.”
She thought for a moment, then asked, “Like forever?”
I nodded.
She squeezed my hand, her small fingers warm. “You still have me.”
I smiled, my heart aching in a way I couldn’t describe. “Yeah, sweetheart. I do.”
The next day, I called Jake’s mother. We hadn’t spoken in years, but when she picked up, she already knew why I was calling.
“He talked about you all the time, you know,” she said softly. “He regretted leaving. He just didn’t know how to fix things.”
“Neither did I,” I admitted.
She sighed. “He left something for you.”
That afternoon, I drove to her house. She handed me a small, worn shoebox. Inside were old mementos: a photo of us grinning, arms around each other’s shoulders, a few crumpled movie tickets, a rock we swore was lucky, and a battered notebook filled with half-finished comic sketches from when we were kids.
At the bottom of the box, there was another note. This one was shorter.
Live a good life, Paul.
Make it count.
Losing Jake taught me something I should have learned long ago: Time doesn’t wait for anyone. Grudges don’t keep you warm at night. And the people who matter? They’re worth fighting for.
I kept that photo on my desk. Every time I looked at it, I could hear Jake’s voice cracking a joke, daring me to race him one more time.
And every time, I smiled.
Life is short. Fix what’s broken while you still can. Tell your friends you love them. Let go of the things that don’t matter.
And for the love of God, don’t bet on something as stupid as who gets more time.
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