You’re still mourning Lisa. I could see it on your face, hear it in your voice, when we sat down to drinks that last time. And yeah, buddy, I knew then that I was dying. I was in denial still, to a point, but I knew. I was picking your brain, that day. I hope I didn’t cause you pain with my questions, but I needed to hear the answers from someone who knew.

I was coming to grips with understanding that I’d be leaving Nadia behind. How could I prepare her for it? What would it be like, for her, after I’m gone? Will she be okay?

I’m gonna say some stuff now that might piss you off, and I’m sorry in advance. Know I’m coming from a place of love, here, okay?

I wanted better for her than I saw in you. You were bitter. Lonely. Angry. Sad. You spent more time working than you did anything else, because it was easier. And then that became a habit, became your life. Your new normal. You’ve been on, from what you’ve told me, one date. Maybe two, since she passed? I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter. It’s a question of moving on, Nate. I asked you, that day over scotch, if you’d moved on. If you could. And you said, boiling it all down, no.

Fuck, dude. Hit me with a hammer from the grave, why don’t you. My eyes sting, my chest hurts, my heart sits heavy in my stomach. I haven’t moved on. I can’t. I don’t know how.

Nate, I need your help. And hopefully, in helping me, you’ll help yourself. Or I’ll help you. It’s hard to know how to phrase all this. I’m writing this at my desk, and I know I’ve got weeks, months at most to live, and I’m just…frantic. Desperate to do something for her.

For my Nadia.

She’s going to be worse than you. I wasn’t there when your wife died, but I can imagine you took it pretty hard. Spent a while at the bottom of a bottle, and then dragged your pieces together such that you could go back to work, and eventually just found enough distance from the whole thing that you feel like you’ve healed as much as you ever will.

And, like I said, I want better for Nadia.

She deserves life. Real LIFE, not just a macabre, zombie half-life. Not just working till exhaustion kills emotion, not just trudging one grief-stricken step after another through a cardboard approximation of life, from workday to workday.

I want her to live, Nathan. But she won’t know how. Like you, she’ll be stuck in her grief.