The Honest Letter
by Ciara Lieby
The letter wasn’t supposed to exist.
Leo had written it at 2:17 a.m., hunched over his desk with nothing but a dim lamp. All he could hear was the steady thump of his own heartbeat filling the silence. It wasn’t for a grade, or a contest, or even meant to be read. It was just… everything he hadn’t said.
He wrote about the way his mom still left the porch light on, even though he was almost grown. About how his best friend Mikey had started drifting away, and how he didn’t know how to fix it without making it worse. About how he missed the friend he used to have, who had been taken away from him by the same people who tried to take Leo away from his family. About his brothers, whom he loved and worried over but didn’t know how to tell them. About how he’s still afraid that someone might hurt his girlfriend, while he can’t do anything about it since she goes to a different school. About the fear that sat in his chest whenever people said, “What do you want to be?” as if there was supposed to be a clear answer.
Most of all, he wrote about his dad.
The words came out messy at first, crossing out sentences, starting over, pressing so hard the pen nearly tore through the paper. But slowly, they softened, Honest. Real. No pretending.
I wish I could’ve said more while you were here, he wrote. I wish I didn’t think I had all the time in the world.
When he finished, he didn’t read it over. He folded it once, then again, and shoved it into his
backpack like it was something fragile or dangerous. It wasn’t meant for anyone, but somehow, it ended up in Mrs. Bastel’s hands.
“Leo, can you come here for a moment?” Her words made his stomach drop. He paused in the doorway. Mrs. Bastel held a folded piece of paper, and he recognized it instantly.
“That’s not-” he started, but he stopped, knowing there was nothing he could say.
“I’m sorry,” she spoke gently. “It fell out of your notebook. I thought it was your essay.”
Leo stared at the floor, afraid to look her in the eyes. Heat crept up his neck. “You weren’t
supposed to read that.”
“I know.” She said, “And I shouldn’t have, but I did.”
He crossed his arms and wished he would just disappear, wake up like it was all a dream, but that wasn’t going to happen. “It’s nothing. You can just throw it away.”
She didn’t move, just watched him for a few seconds. “I’m not going to do that, Leo.”
“Why not?” His voice was sharper than he meant for it to be. “It’s just- well, it’s nothing. It
doesn’t matter, it doesn’t mean anything, it’s just words on paper.”
Mrs. Bastel tilted her head slightly, “You really think that’s all this is?”
Leo shrugged, still refusing to look up, “Yeah. It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters, Leo.”
He let out a small, frustrated laugh. “It really doesn’t.”
“It does,” her tone was firmer now, “It doesn’t even have to feel like it matters for any reason
except for the fact that it’s honest. And most people don’t let themselves be that honest
nowadays.” Leo didn’t answer, and she slid the letter across the desk toward him.
“You don’t have to share this with anyone if you don’t want to. That’s your choice. But those
kinds of words are important. Very important.”
He hesitated, then picked it up. “Why?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Bastel gave him a small smile. “Because they come from you. And that’s the part people connect to.” She tapped the letter in Leo’s hands, “And this – this is an honest letter.”
For three days, the letter stayed buried in his bag. Leo kept to himself, answering questions in a few words whenever he was forced to answer. He avoided any conversations and kept his head down. Hoping that no one would ask him if he was okay, because he didn’t really know if he could answer that.
On the fourth day, Mikey sat down next to him at lunch. He didn’t sit across from him nor at the end of the table; he sat right next to Leo.
“Hey, you’ve been off lately,” he seemed to be trying not to sound like he was judging.
“It’s nothing. I’m just tired.” Leo said with a shrug as he picked up his sandwich.
Mikey gave him a look, “You always say that.”
Leo let out a quiet laugh, a sad one, “What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
They sat in silence for a moment, not exactly awkward but not normal. It was a heavy silence, filled with thought, as though something was sitting inside their minds trying to break out. Leo looked down at his backpack, sighed, and before he could overthink, he pulled out the letter, setting it on the table.
Mikey looked down at it, “What’s that?”
“Something I wrote,” Leo said, his voice tight. “I wasn’t planning on showing anyone. It’s random stuff.”
Mikey raised an eyebrow as he looked between the letter on the table and Leo, “Then why are you showing me?”
Leo swallowed, nerves building up, “I guess ‘cause I think I should.”
Mikey studied him for a second before he nodded, “Okay.” He unfolded the letter carefully. Leo looked down at his lap, fidgeting with his fingers, afraid of what Mikey would think. Mikey didn’t say anything while he read, his eyes moving slowly across the page. His eyes widened before slowly, his brow furrowed, and his lip twitched. When he finished, he took a second just looking at the letter before he folded it back up and handed it to Leo.
“That wasn’t ‘random stuff,’” Mikey breathed. There were tears at the edges of his eyes “That was real.”
Leo let out a sigh of relief, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, “Yeah. I guess it was.”
Mikey leaned back in his chair, staring out the window. He wiped his eyes, “My dad keeps
asking me what’s been going on with me lately.”
Leo glanced at him. “What do you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
Leo nodded, “Yeah, I get that.”
Mikey looked back at him, “I hadn’t noticed how distanced we became after he died.”
Leo hesitated before shaking his head. “Yeah. Jackson was the best friend we ever had, and
now he’s gone.” Mikey nodded slowly.
“Yeah, he really was.” For the first time since Jackson’s murder, the silence between them didn’t feel like distance, but understanding.
That night, Leo clicked the lamp on, its soft glowing light pooled over the same worn desk, the same quiet pressing in around him. He just sat there, fingers tracing the edge of the notebook he hadn’t opened in over a year. The cover was creased, and the corners were bent from years of gripping it too hard. He flipped it open. Blank pages waited after the older entries. His jaw tightened. Ink should’ve filled those pages already, but no ink had touched the pages since his father died. His grip on the pen tightened; another page, another memory. This journal was the final birthday present from his Dad. Leo shut his eyes, slowly exhaled through his nose, then leaned forward. The pen touched the paper. Leo wrote because the words weren’t meant to stay hidden. He knew that now. They were meant to be shared.
Right from the heart.
