This is the first in a new series called Letters from Radiant—dispatches from the world of my novels, written by the characters who still have something left to say.
You can find the full collection here.
Dear Ezra,
You always said I’d be late to my own funeral. Turns out you were right. I’m still hanging around, trying to make sense of it all—how a boy can disappear but not be gone.
Mornings are the hardest. The fog rolls through the valley like it’s looking for someone, brushing up against the fences, catching in the trees. It almost feels like a body, something with weight. If I stand still enough, I can almost feel it breathing back.
I saw you the other day, out by the road, shoving your hands into your pockets like you always do when you’re trying not to cry. You looked older, somehow. Not in your face, but in the way you moved—like the world got heavier overnight.
I wish I could tell you it gets lighter. I wish I could tell you anything at all. But mostly, I just want you to know I see you. You’re still my best friend, even from here.
Tell Gran I miss the way she said my name. Tell her the valley’s still beautiful in the morning.
—Jojo
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