He died in New York City, the day before I could get to him, because I waited too long. I never was able to tell him how much fun I had those nights during high school, nerding out in his basement playing video games and watching movies, or that I looked forward to golf on sunny summer mornings not because I love the game but because he didn’t care if I cheated. I never got to tell him how much I respected him for earning his PhD at 28 years old. I never got to tell him how lucky I was to have him as a friend. And here I am, standing on the Brooklyn Bridge alone on a freezing February morning, talking into the wind, hoping that it will carry a message for me; a message of sadness; a message of humility; a message of apology.
— By (from “Open Theme”)
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