Up until the year I was in 8th grade, no one had quite ever made me feel the way that Jesse Boland did. I'd had crushes before, and I'd had close friends before, but Jesse and I shared something really special. He made me laugh more than anyone could, he was kind and compassionate, always looking out for and defending the people he loved.
I realized I had romantic feelings for him after we had already decided that we were best friends, but there was a hard and fast rule in my house growing up that you DID NOT date until you were 16. I had turned down other boys because of this rule, but not being able to admit my feelings for Jesse was different, in a very painful way. Not only was I not allowed to date and deathly afraid of being in trouble or disappointing my mom, but Jesse was my friend, and even as an immature tween I didn’t want anything to ruin our friendship. He was too important to me.
Thus the letter writing began. I started pouring my heart out in the form of letters to him that only I ever read. It became this cathartic way of coping not only with normal preteen hormonal rage but also the grief I encountered too young, and the anxiety and depression diagnosis I was working through. The transition from middle school to high school separated us for a bit as he was content to befriend a crowd that I wasn’t interested in, but Jesse and I were still friends, and I still kept writing the letters. Hours of dramatic, deep emotion are still packed away in composition notebooks that I have refused to throw away. Between knowing that I would be breaking a rule by admitting my feelings and knowing it really could risk our friendship, I continued to press pen to paper, shut the notebook tight, hide it away, and hope we could stay close friends.
Even though my heart literally felt like it was aching not being his girlfriend or whatever dumb definitive label I had in mind, we were always buds, and some of my most meaningful memories to this day come from the times we spent together. When I think of him, I remember all kinds of things that make me smile and giggle, and that would probably embarrass him. There were a couple of years where we gave him a ride home from school everyday so that he didn’t have to ride the bus. Many of those afternoons, he would just tag along home and spend the evening with us. He was like family to me.
At one of the houses we were living in at the time, there was a finished, large, open basement with flat white carpet, and cinder block white walls. There wasn’t much furniture down there, so we would block off one half of the room and play gaga ball off the walls. Hitting each other with a deflated volleyball shouldn’t be that much fun, but we would laugh until we cried. I don’t know how my mom ever got anything done with the shrieks and giggles that rose up the stairs. In that same basement, I can still picture Jesse penguin sliding down the carpeted stairs and singing loud obnoxious solos to our Xbox 360 Glee Karaoke game. I can see his smile as he chucked paper towel rolls at me and my sister in a full blown war that carried up the stairs and down the hall. There was a freedom and joy to our relationship that I craved so desperately.
All that time, I knew he had my back, but I never showed him the letters. I told him I loved him all the time, but I never expressed that being anything beyond deep friendship. He moved away before we graduated, got his GED, and went into the workforce, but every now and then we still kept in touch. Every message he would send was a gift, and I always held our time together so close. We both knew we loved each other, but life moved us in different directions.
He died at age 18. It was a terrible car accident with others injured, but Jesse was pronounced dead at the scene. I must have blocked out the moments when I learned this because I have no memory of it. I just remember the pain. I remember the regret. I remember desperately wanting the chance to tell him that I loved him one more time.
I vaguely remember a memorial we put together for him at our school. My heart still breaks thinking about my time singing those broken notes of “Hallelujah” that drifted through the library presentation room while my friend Riley picked at his guitar. I vaguely remember his funeral, but I vividly remember standing next to his burial site while roses were tossed by his loved ones down to where he rested, and his mom turned to me, extended a rose and said, “He would want you to have this. He really really loved you.” I still have that rose framed in a shadow box.
I think about Jesse all the time. I think about the things I wish I would have said. I think about how badly I wanted him to know how much his friendship meant to me. The laughs we shared carried me through such darkness, and I never had the chance to properly thanked him for that. He once told me that he loved the song, “Bubbly” by Colbie Caillat because it made him think of his mom. I can’t tell you the number of times that I’ve been having a bad day when I suddenly hear that song come on the radio.
I still read the letters I wrote to him that no one else has ever seen. I can tell you exactly where those notebooks are on my nightstand right now. And even though it is deeply sad to think about not ever having the chance to tell him in person, I keep it all as a reminder to not ever keep love to myself.
If I love someone, they know about it, or at least I do everything in my power to make it seem that way. If it’s within my control, I won’t ever let someone I care about go a day without knowing how much I care about them because it quite literally could be the last time I get the chance. I wish I had a last chance to tell Jesse everything, to thank him for such beautiful memories, but I don't. You truly never know when someone’s time to leave this Earth will come. I hope you never have to learn that the hard way.
I like to leave each blog with a challenge, so if you hear nothing else, hear this; go hug the people you love. Hold on tighter and maybe a little longer than you usually do. Don’t ever miss an opportunity to tell the people you love that you love them. Tell them over and over again. You will never regret that. You will, however, regret saying and doing nothing. Go love the people. Go do the things.
I love you, Jesse. I miss you. I really hope to see you again someday.
Reader, you are truly and deeply loved as well.
Comments