Chapter Text
Over the years, Mickey had quietly retired from celebrating New Year’s. With his late mother’s birthday falling on the first of January, he preferred to let the day go by unacknowledged. However, his sister Mandy was always on his ass about it, insisting he "get out more." She’d lecture him about being too wrapped up in work, claiming he needed to meet someone new—someone to build a life with and all that other time consuming crap “normal” people give into.
That was how he’d ended up here: sitting on his sister’s couch with a glass of lukewarm vodka in one hand and a bottle of Pepsi in the other.
His nieces and nephews were tearing through the house, fueled by a collective second wind. On the television, Ryan Seacrest was rambling about how eerie it was to see the city streets empty because of the pandemic. Meanwhile, the guy Mandy had set him up with was currently blowing chunks in the bathroom. The whole night was a wash; he’d never wanted to be home more in his life.
“Ten minutes!” Mandy yelled to the small crowd.
He’d be having a better time at home, working and hanging out with his cat. At least there, people wouldn't be staring and whispering behind his back. He knew Mandy’s friends didn’t mean any harm, but they still looked at him like he was made of glass—like one wrong word would shatter him. That was the old Mickey. They had no idea how much work he’d put in or how much better off he was now. Nobody really did, but that was the price he paid for keeping the door locked on his life.
Needing to look busy to avoid the eyes tracking him from across the room, Mickey pulled out his phone. He wasn’t a social media guy, but it was either that or the news, and both were equally depressing.
Twitter was a ghost town. He only used the app to keep up with work and current events anyway. He tweeted maybe ten times in his life, and nine of those were just announcing inventory restocks. His email was just as barren, save for a few work notifications he hadn't bothered to delete.
He’d started selling his art online as a joke, never thinking anyone would give a crap, until some famous Instagram chick liked a photo and placed an order. Now, he lives in a one-bedroom on the West Side of Chicago and doesn't have to eat ramen for dinner every night. It’s a decent life. Better than he'd expected.
He didn't dare open TikTok—he’d get lost in that vacuum for hours—so he settled for Facebook. He scrolled past the usual political rants from his deadbeat brothers and cousins, the occasional "inspirational" quote from his friend Deanna, and those weirdly addictive life-hack videos. That was the extent of his digital world: twenty friends, most of them related to him.
“Three minutes!” Mandy called out.
At the top of the screen, a small red dot sat over the Messenger icon. Assuming it was just one of his brothers sending memes, he tapped it. The app loaded, but as he scrolled, nothing showed up as new. He toggled back to the main feed, but the notification persisted. It shouldn't have bothered him, but the stubborn little red alert felt like an itch he couldn't scratch.
He went back into the app, scrolling slower this time, until he noticed an icon he didn't recognize at the top of the list. He tapped it, and immediately felt the air leave his lungs.
A name he had tried to bury appeared, followed by: Has sent you a message.
“What?”
The word slipped out before he could stop it. He looked up sharply, but thankfully, no one was paying him any mind by now. To them, he was just another guy talking to his phone—another reason to think he was crazy.
His heart hammered against his ribs as his eyes traced the small, circular profile photo of a smiling Ian Gallagher. The boy who had turned his world upside down. The boy who had broken his heart and left him questioning his own skin. The boy he had loved with everything he had—and the boy who had ruined it all.
“30… 29… 28… 27…” The kids began the countdown.
Why now? The memory of the way Ian had screamed at him the last time they were together played on a loop in his head. He told him he hated him. So what the hell would possess him to reach out? Especially tonight, when Ian knew damn well how hard the New Year was for him. Or maybe he didn't. It wouldn’t surprise Mickey if he’d forgotten entirely.
“15… 14… 13… 12…” Now the whole room was joining in.
He should delete it. He should block the number. That’s what the rational part of him would say. But that side of his brain was losing ground to the part of him that was still starving for an answer. Before he could talk himself out of it, his thumb moved.
“5… 4… 3… 2… 1…”
Ian Gallagher: Hey you.
As Auld Lang Syne drifted from the television and the room erupted into celebration, the only thing Mickey could hear was the ghost of Ian’s voice. Hey you. He’d heard it a thousand times over the years, and now it was back, ringing with a clarity that made his stomach turn. He hated it. He hated the way his body slumped into the cushions and the sudden, suffocating tightness in his chest became almost too much to bear. It wasn’t fair that two simple words could blur his vision when he hadn't shed a tear in years.
Just like that, every coping mechanism he’d spent years building flew right out the window.
“Happy New Year, Uncle Mickey!”
His oldest nephew, Jackson—who’d somehow already hit twenty back in June—patted his shoulder and pressed a shot glass into his hand. Mickey didn’t ask what was in it; he didn't care. He threw the liquid back, let his phone tumble onto the couch, and immediately reached for his vodka-Pepsi to wash it down. He couldn’t go home now. Being alone in a quiet apartment would only let the thoughts win.
“You alright?” Jackson asked, leaning down to catch his eye.
“Nope.”
Mickey didn’t stick around to elaborate. He shoved past the small crowd and headed for the door. He needed air, and he needed a smoke.
The Chicago winter hit him like a physical blow, forcing a raspy cough from his lungs until they adjusted to the freeze. He fumbled a cigarette out of the pack, his fingers trembling slightly as he sparked his lighter.
Ian wanted something. He had to. There was no way in hell he was reaching out just to make amends—not that Mickey would let him. Not after everything. The "Old Mickey" would have replied within seconds, heart racing, desperate for the connection. But the "New Mickey" was stronger. He knew right from wrong, and he knew that nothing good ever came from Gallagher. He needed to block him. Delete the whole damn app. He’d even used a burner name on Facebook—how the fuck had Ian found him anyway?
The screen door creaked open behind him, clipping him in the back. He stepped aside to let the newcomer out.
“We aren’t supposed to be moping,” Mandy said, pulling out her own pack. Mickey handed over his lighter without a word.
“It’s not that,” he said, taking a long, dragging pull of his cigarette. For the first time on January first, he wasn't thinking about his mother. In a twisted way, he was almost grateful for the distraction.
“Jackson said you looked upset.” Mandy’s tone was cautious, the one she usually reserved for her kids.
He hesitated. He knew her reaction would be explosive, especially after the hell he’d put her through the last time Ian had wrecked his life. But Mandy was like a bloodhound; she’d never stop digging.
He took one last hit, exhaled a cloud into the freezing air, and turned to her. “I just got a message from Ian Gallagher.”
Just saying the name felt like swallowing poison.
“Wait… what?” Mandy’s eyebrows shot up. She choked on her inhale, a plume of grey smoke coughing back out of her mouth.
“I don't fucking know,” Mickey muttered, dropping down to sit on the porch steps. He didn't have answers. He just had that stupid, smiling profile picture burned into his retinas.
Mandy sat beside him in silence until their cigarettes were nothing but glowing embers.
“What did it say?” she finally asked.
“Hey you.” He hadn’t meant to mimic Ian’s specific inflection, but the words came out exactly that way.
“Mick…” Her shoulders dropped, and she rested a heavy hand on his back. “Did you reply?”
“Hell no. Mandy, what the fuck would I even say?” It had been a question he was asking himself too.
“I know you. I know the hold that piece of shit has on you, and how easy it is for him to snake his way back in…..”
“It’s different now,” he snapped, though the words lacked conviction.
“Is it? Because the last time I saw that look on your face, you were—”
“Alright. Alright. Fuck.” He stood up abruptly, unable to hear the rest of that sentence. He didn’t want to talk about it, and he didn't want to think. He wanted to drink until the redhead vanished from his mind for the rest of the night.
He turned back toward the house, heading straight for the makeshift bar in the kitchen.
Desperate to drown out the noise in his head, Mickey threw himself into whatever chaotic game the kids were playing, clutching a fresh bottle of vodka like a life preserver. He even took a detour to check on his date; the guy was officially out cold on the bathroom floor. It wasn't until the kids were finally tucked away and the party had slowed to a hum that the distractions failed him. He was left alone with his thoughts, and Ian Gallagher was the only thing filling the space.
The longer he stood there, the more he drank, and the more his logic eroded. Did Ian even realize that a single message had decimated his entire night? Did he even care? Probably not. That was the Gallagher way. He was probably just sitting there, waiting for Mickey to come crawling back like he always did. The "New Mickey" was fading fast, replaced by a drunk, hurt version of himself that didn't want to think—he just wanted to react.
When he pulled his phone from his pocket, the message was still there, glowing like a taunt. He stabbed at the reply box until the keyboard finally appeared.
Mickey: Whaat?
He stared at the screen, his vision swimming. It was nearly two in the morning; he didn't expect a reply. But within minutes, the three little dots appeared. Ian was typing. Mickey’s pulse spiked, thudding in his ears.
Ian Gallagher: How are you?
Mickey let out a sharp, jagged laugh. How are you? As if they were just two old friends catching up. As if Ian hadn't torn his soul out and walked away with it. With shaky thumbs, he hammered out a reply, the spelling as messy as his head.
Mickey: We havveen't tallked for years n you relly message m asking how I am?
The typing bubble appeared, vanished, and reappeared several times.
Ian Gallagher: You’re drunk. We can talk later.
Fuck that, Mickey thought. He didn't care if he was drunk. In fact, the alcohol was the only thing giving him the balls to say what needed to be said. If he didn't do this now, he'd never do it.
Mickey: Talk noww. Wy are yu messagin me?
The reply was instantaneous this time.
Ian Gallagher: I thought maybe we could talk…. About us.
About us? Anger flared in his gut, hot and caustic. No, they weren't going to "talk." Mickey had spent their entire relationship paralyzed, afraid that if he said the wrong thing or showed too much of himself, Ian would vanish. He’d lived in constant fear of losing the only thing that mattered. But that Mickey was dead. Gone.
Mickey: I dont talkk topeople whho hate me n treat me lke shit.
Ian Gallagher: I could never hate you Mick. I checked up on you from time to time.
The words hit him like a physical blow. The room tilted, the floor seemingly rising up to meet him until he was sitting on the linoleum of his sister’s kitchen. I checked up on you. The idea that Ian had actually cared—that he’d wondered about Mickey’s life while Mickey was busy trying to forget he existed—felt like a cruel joke.
Mickey: Bullsshit. Alll of thisis bullshit!
Silence followed. No bubble. No dots. Ian had seen it, but he wasn't responding.
“Mick, you good?”
Warren, Mandy’s husband, was suddenly hovering over him, a look of concern on his face.
“M’good,” Mickey managed.
But he wasn't. He was furious, he was grieving, and worst of all, he realized he still missed the person he hated most in the world. The realization turned his stomach. Bile rose in his throat, and as he lunged for the trash can, Warren was already there, sliding it under his chin just as he started to heave.
***
Mickey woke the next morning with the worst case of cotton mouth he’d ever had and a rhythmic pounding behind his eyes that he knew would require a small pharmacy’s worth of aspirin to kill.
“Told you he wasn’t dead,” a small voice whispered, followed by a giggle. Even that tiny sound felt like a hammer striking his skull.
He cracked one eye open. His nieces were standing over him, staring as if he were a specimen in a jar. He didn’t remember how he’d gotten there, but he’d apparently made it to the couch before losing consciousness. He was shirtless, and judging by the lingering sour taste in his mouth, he’d likely ruined his shirt the night before.
“Megan, Emily—leave Uncle Mickey alone. He’s sick, just like Mommy.” Warren’s voice boomed as he approached, shooing the girls away.
“Water. Aspirin. Hair of the dog.”
Warren set a glass of water and a bottle of pills on the end table but handed Mickey a beer. Mickey didn't hesitate; he took a long, cold pull before trying to sit up. It was a mistake. The room performed a slow, sickening tilt. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut, and tried to focus on his brother-in-law’s voice.
“Mandy’s in the bedroom if you want to pass out in there for a bit. I can’t keep the kids out of here forever.”
“Mmhggh,” Mickey grunted. His throat felt like he’d swallowed glass; actual words were currently beyond his pay grade.
Sharing a bed with his sister wasn't his first choice, but her room would be dark, quiet, and cold—the exact opposite of the living room. He gathered the water and the aspirin and dragged himself down the hall.
The relief was instant once the door clicked shut. He downed three aspirin, chugged the water, and lowered himself onto the mattress beside a cocoon of blankets that he assumed contained Mandy.
“If you’re in here, who’s with the kids?” Mandy’s voice was a muffled mumble from beneath the duvet.
“It’s Mick,” he croaked, burying his face in a pillow.
He heard the rustle of fabric. Without looking, he knew she was staring at him.
“How you feeling?” There it was—the "mom voice" again.
“Like shit,” he muttered into the pillow.
“I asked how you felt, not how you looked.”
“Fuck off.”
“You know…” Mandy paused. The silence stretched out, and Mickey finally turned his head to see if she was done. She wasn't. “You know what he’s trying to do, right?”
Mickey just wanted a few hours of oblivion before the long drive back to the West Side. But apparently, his sister had other plans. “Who?”
“Ian… Gallagher.”
Right. It hadn't been a fever dream. The message was real. It was the reason he felt like death, which was fitting—it was the same way Ian had made him feel. The last time he’d felt this hollowed out, he’d been waking up in a hospital bed.
“Not now,” Mickey groaned, trying to retreat back into the pillow. She didn't take the hint.
“You can’t let him back in, Mickey. I know you still love him, but you—”
“Stop. Stop!” He tried to shout, but it triggered a jagged coughing fit. He wanted to get up, wanted a drink, wanted to be anywhere else, but his body wouldn't cooperate.
He didn’t want to hear it. He didn’t want to admit she was right. No matter how much work he put in, the love for Ian was written into his DNA. It was a part of him he couldn't cut out, no matter how much it rotted.
“Don’t yell, I have a headache, asshole,” Mandy snapped, swatting at his arm.
“Then shut up and go to sleep, bitch.”
The room finally went quiet. Mickey lay there, the logic finally beginning to pierce through the hangover. He knew the drill. Ian was likely lonely, looking for a familiar place to waste some time, thinking "Good Old Reliable Mickey" would be waiting with open arms.
But things were different now. He had a life. He had a career. He couldn’t—wouldn't—go back to being a backup plan. Not this time.
***
The next time he surfaced, he felt marginally more human. He rolled over to find the bed empty; Mandy was already gone. He could have stayed there—he could have stayed in that dark room until Warren or Mandy physically dragged him out—but he knew that wallowing in the shadows, hungover or not, was a dangerous game. With a reluctant groan, he pushed himself up and rejoined the land of the living.
Mandy and Warren were tangled in blankets on the couch, the kids scattered across the floor in sleeping bags while some annoyingly loud cartoon blared from the TV. It was a domestic scene that usually made him feel a quiet sense of pride for his sister, but today, it just felt like an irritant. Seeing two people so disgustingly in love was the last thing he needed, especially when his brain kept trying to overlay images of him and Ian snuggled up in that same easy way.
After reclaiming his shirt—which Warren had surprisingly laundered for him—he did the rounds. He gave his nieces and nephews quick goodbye hugs and traded a fist-bump with Warren. When he reached Mandy, he pulled her into a hug and kept his voice low, needing to settle the worry he saw in her eyes.
“I’m not going back, Man. I can’t.”
When he pulled away, he saw that look again—the same hollow, terrified expression she’d worn that night in the hospital. That look alone was enough of a spine-stiffener to keep him from giving Ian an inch.
He did one last pocket-check for his keys and phone, then stepped out into the biting air, climbed into his car, and started the long trek home.
The drive was a minefield of memories. The good ones hit first: countless nights spent talking until dawn, the adrenaline of running through the South Side after causing chaos, the way Ian used to look at him like he was the only person who existed. Ian’s smile. But he couldn't stop the bad ones from crashing the party, either—the memory of the fist-sized hole in his childhood bedroom wall, and the jagged, cold feeling of the last time they’d stood in the same room. By the time he pulled up to his apartment building, the wallowing he’d tried to avoid felt inevitable. One day of feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to kill him.
Usually, he took the stairs to the second floor, but today the elevator was his only friend. He unlocked his door and was instantly greeted by the one thing guaranteed to make the day bearable.
“I know, I know. I’m late. Sorry.” He leaned down and scratched Rusty’s head. The orange tabby let out a demanding meow, rubbing firmly against Mickey’s shin.
He went through the motions of his routine—filling Rusty’s bowl, checking the water—before heading into the shower. Even if he was going to spend the afternoon in bed, he didn't want to smell like the previous night’s mistakes.
Freshly showered and in pajama pants, he crawled under the covers. Rusty jumped up immediately, demanding a spot on Mickey’s chest until the cat eventually drifted off, purring. Mickey wished sleep came that easily for him. Instead, he lay there for an hour, his mind a loop of "what-ifs" and "should-haves." He found himself taking the blame for things he knew, intellectually, weren't his fault. It was a major "no-no" in therapy, so before he completely spiraled, he reached for his phone to find a distraction on TikTok.
But when he swiped the screen open, there it was. Ian’s face was waiting in a notification bubble at the bottom of the screen.
Ian Gallagher: I hadn’t realized what I did or…
Or what? The curiosity was a physical itch. He didn’t need to know. It wasn't important. He should block the account and go back to his life. But his thumb seemed to move independently of his brain. Before he could talk himself out of it, he tapped the bubble.
Ian Gallagher: I hadn’t realized what I did or what I said back then was that horrible. Can we just talk? Please?
Mickey felt his blood begin to simmer, a slow heat rising up his neck.
“Bullshit,” he hissed. The sound made Rusty startle awake, the cat blinking at him with wide, golden eyes. “Sorry,” Mickey muttered, reaching out to scratch the tabby’s ears until the cat stretched his paws across the duvet and drifted off again.
It was absolute bullshit, and he didn't have the bandwidth for it. Not today. He closed the message and went straight for Ian’s profile, his thumb hovering with the intent to find the block button and end this. He wasn't doing this. He couldn't do this. Letting Ian back in was a ten-step regression in a recovery he’d fought tooth and nail for. But as the profile loaded and that damn photo filled the screen, Mickey’s thumb froze.
Ian’s hair was longer than he remembered. Now that the photo was enlarged, he could see the faint, copper start of a beard. The dark red stubble made him look older—sturdier, somehow. But his eyes hadn't changed. That specific, shifting shade of hazel was exactly the same as the day they’d met. Ian wasn't the fourteen-year-old boy Mickey had first encountered, but that freckled face was still a map Mickey could navigate in the dark. He could pick those features out of a crowd of thousands in a heartbeat.
He hated how long he let himself stare. He hated that he tapped the image to make it even larger, and he loathed himself for swiping through the five other public photos. It was like his body had been hijacked.
It wasn’t until the alarm for his nightly meds shrieked from his phone that the spell finally broke. He blinked, the harsh light of the phone screen burning his retinas as he realized he’d spent nearly thirty minutes dissecting the same five images.
This was Ian’s true power—the "hold." Mickey used to joke that Ian could murder a puppy in front of him and he’d find a way to justify why the dog had it coming. That thought pissed him off more than anything. How could one person own another so completely? His therapist called it a byproduct of the psychological games Ian could have been playing—deep-seated patterns that were agonizingly hard to break. He was supposed to be working on it. He was supposed to be better.
Frustrated and reeling, he exited the app and went a step further, logging out of Facebook and Messenger entirely. Normally, he’d force himself to eat something before his medication, but he had zero fuel left. He pulled the pills from his bedside drawer, tossed them back, and swallowed them dry, the bitterness lingering on his tongue.
With the desperate hope that the chemistry would knock him out before his brain could start another loop, he rolled over, dragged the blanket over his head, and surrendered to the dark.
***
Mickey hadn't had the energy—or the will—to even crawl out of bed until noon today, when the looming appointment with his therapist finally forced him into clothes and out the door. He’d considered canceling, but the tiny, desperate hope that she could untangle the knot in his chest was enough of a push. So, he found himself back on the familiar green couch, watching Dr. Howell settle into the chair across from him.
“This makes it what? A seven or eight-year tradition now?” Dr. Howell offered a small, knowing smile as she crossed her legs, resting her hands in her lap.
January second had become his annual "reset" session. It was his way of offloading the holiday baggage and trying to start the year without a target on his back. At the rate this year was starting, though, he had a feeling he’d need a double session just to stay level.
The first twenty minutes were standard: an assessment of his headspace and the usual grief that came with his mother’s birthday. For once, he hadn't even been thinking about her, which—in some twisted, Catholic-guilt corner of his brain—made him feel like an asshole. When the conversation shifted to his New Year’s Eve blackout, the time came to say the name out loud. Telling her about Ian made the whole thing feel dangerously real, shattering the hope that the entire night had just been a vodka-soaked nightmare.
He walked her through the message, the way his blood had turned to lead, and the messy, drunken reply he’d sent. Seeing the flash of genuine surprise on her face was all the confirmation he needed: he’d fucked up. This wasn't going to be a quick fix.
She leaned on him a bit about the drunken texting, and Mickey sat there, feeling like a moron. He knew the rules. He’d memorized the "manual" for his own sanity, and he’d still let his thumb override his brain.
“Mickey, I want to try something different with you.” Dr. Howell rose, retrieved something from her desk, and sat back down. “It sounds like you have a lifetime of things to say to him—things that are currently taking up too much room in your head. I want you to do something for me.”
She placed a red notebook on the table between them. Mickey stared at it, the realization of what she was asking hitting him like a cold draft. He’d seen this in movies; he knew the trope, and it felt ridiculous.
“I want you to write down everything you remember, from the very beginning to the end of your relationship with Ian. But I want you to write it to him. Tell him every single thing you felt or thought while it was happening.”
She paused, likely reading the "hell no" written across my face, and let out a soft chuckle.
“I know, it’s not my usual suggestion for you. But hear me out. Once you’ve purged everything onto the paper, bring it to me. I’m not going to read it. We’re going to take it out back, douse it in lighter fluid, and drop a match on it.”
Mickey bristled. He’d come here for help moving forward, and she wanted him to go back and relive the trauma? He stared at her, genuinely questioning her credentials for the first time in years.
“Just try it. If it doesn't feel like it’s helping after a few entries, we’ll pivot.”
He’d followed her lead before, and it had usually paid off, but this felt like busywork. He could sum up his feelings for Ian Gallagher in a two-word letter: Fuck you.
“Or,” she said, her voice dropping into a challenge, “you could just keep messaging him and let him take up space in your head again.”
The smugness in her tone would have been unprofessional if they hadn't known each other so long. But she knew Mickey. She knew that to get through his armor, she had to be blunt. She was right, and it sucked. If he kept texting Ian, he’d just get "buttered up" by whatever lies Ian was selling this week.
“I’m not writing it. My handwriting is shit and I’ve got too much work to do to be dealing with hand cramps.” It was a weak excuse, but it was all he had.
“Then type it,” she countered instantly, as if she’d anticipated the move. “Open a Word file. Save it. We’ll print the pages out and burn those instead.”
Mickey exhaled a long, defeated breath and crossed his arms over his chest like a pouting kid. If she was going to be this relentless about the damn letters, fine. He’d do it.
“Good. Then in our sessions, we can stop circling the history and focus on how you’re coping in the present. Because you can’t forget to—”
“Take care of myself. I know.” Mickey nodded, giving his eyes a therapeutic roll.
It was the same sign-off she used for every forty-five-minute session. It was his cue to grab his coat, leave the green couch behind, and try to survive another day.
Returning home after his session, Mickey sat at his desk and flipped open his laptop. His plan was simple: open his work files, bury himself in it, and keep his hands moving. It lasted exactly ten minutes before his focus shattered. The thoughts of Ian—unwanted and intrusive—began to colonize his mind again, crowding out everything else.
He still thought the writing exercise was idiotic. He didn’t want to excavate the past or dissect the details of a life he’d tried so hard to leave behind. He just wanted to forget. But ever since that message had arrived, forgetting had become a luxury he couldn't afford. Therapy hadn't provided the instant relief he’d craved, and he knew he couldn't stay in this state of limbo forever, or he’d end up right back at square one—shaking, drunk, and desperate.
He took a deep breath, the kind his therapist always encouraged, and opened a blank Word document. The cursor blinked, steady and expectant. He began to type.
This is dumb. This is a waste of time. I hate you. End of story.
He sat back, staring at the sentence for a long beat. If he was actually going to do this, he knew he had to commit—no half-measures. But as he allowed himself to think back to the very first day, he could feel the boards being ripped off a rabbit hole he’d kept sealed for years. It was a suffocating feeling.
Gnawing on his bottom lip until it stung, he highlighted the first sentence and hit backspace. He rolled his eyes at his own reflection in the screen, took one more shaky breath, and finally let his fingers find the keys.
***
Letter #1
I know the first time we actually met was briefly when we were kids. Seven years old, I think. Our sisters forced me and my brother to watch some Disney crap with you and your brother so they could talk about boys, we didn't say two words to each other. After that, you were just a blurred memory for a long time.
The day we met again, though... that’s the one I can’t shake. Mandy was in a frantic rush to get to the hospital. Your sister Fiona was in labor with her first daughter Lindsay, and I was dragged along to babysit my nephew in the waiting room because Warren was at work and Mandy just had to be there for her best friend. I sat in that waiting room with Jackson for what felt like an eternity, thinking about how I’d rather be home playing PlayStation than stuck in a sterile hospital. I was fourteen. I didn't care about anything else.
Finally, Mandy came in and said we could leave soon, but she wanted Jackson to meet the baby and take photos. The room was packed. Between the family and the nurses, there was nowhere to sit. Mandy picked up Jackson, and I found a small patch of wall to lean against, trying to become invisible. I never wanted people looking at me—when they did, I could feel it under my skin. And then, I spotted you.
You were standing in the corner in a black Green Day shirt and checkered Converse. Even with that red, shaggy hair hanging over your eyes, I could see how intensely green they were as you stared right at me. I remember my first thought being, Why is this kid looking at me? When we made eye contact, you looked away fast, then immediately looked back.
That second look—and that dopey smile you gave me—is something I’ll never forget. It’s burned into my skull. I think if I lost my memory tomorrow, that smile would be the one thing that stuck. It’s safe to say that if I hadn’t been forced to go to the hospital that day, I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this stupid letter. I guess it really is all Mandy’s fault, isn’t it?
Anyway... that smile made me blush. My whole body started to tingle, and for a split second, I was actually glad we were in a hospital because I was sure I was having a stroke. I didn’t know what it was then, but looking back, it was the first time I realized I was attracted to a boy who wasn't a celebrity or a model in a magazine hidden under my mattress. Mandy knew I was gay. My mom knew, too. But the rest of the family didn't, so I still had to keep that shit buried.
You wouldn’t stop looking, and I guess that meant I couldn't stop looking back. Then a nurse came in and told us there were too many people in the room. We all started to filter out. Mandy said her goodbyes to your sister and her boyfriend Jimmy, and we headed for the elevator. It wasn't until we were in that cramped metal box that I realized you and your brother Lip were right behind us.
Mandy and your dad were talking, and you and Lip were whispering about something, but out of the corner of my eye, I could see you glancing at me every few seconds. I got self-conscious, thinking I had something on my face. I reached up to wipe my chin, and you laughed. That tingle started all over again. I was already hooked, and we hadn't even spoken. Pretty pathetic, right?
We walked out to Mandy’s car together, and as you guys were leaving, you looked right at me and said, “Bye, Mickey.”
I was freaked out. I had no idea how you knew my name when I didn't even know yours. I spent the entire car ride racking my brain until I finally gave in and asked Mandy.
“That’s Ian. Fiona’s brother,” she said.
Then it clicked. The memory of that movie we watched as kids came back, but I still couldn't figure out how you remembered me. So, I guess that’s my first question: How did you remember my name after all those years? I couldn’t get you out of my head for the rest of the day. I just kept wondering when I’d see you again. You had me from the very first day, and you didn't even know it. I can't help but wonder if you thought about me at all that night.
***
Mickey clicked the save button, labeling the file Letter #1, and snapped his laptop shut.
He didn't feel better. If anything, he felt worse. Recalling that "tingly" feeling from all those years ago was too similar to the rush he’d felt seeing Ian’s name in his inbox the night before. No one else had ever been able to make him feel that way, and it pissed him off.
It wasn't exactly the kind of letter Dr. Howell had in mind—it was more of a confession than a confrontation—but he was still adjusting to the idea.
Thinking back to that fourteen-year-old kid, he felt a wave of pity. He’d been so young and so stupidly innocent. He still couldn't wrap his head around how things had spiraled so far out of control to put him where he was now. He doubted he’d ever figure it out.