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He didn't even get to say goodbye. Not really.
By the time Harvey got the call, it was already over. It was too late for appeals, too late for second chances, too late for all the words he’d been saving for when he finally found a way back to him. The system he’d spent his life mastering had chewed Mike up and spit him out, and there wasn’t a single thing he could do to stop it.
The firm had sent flowers. Louis tried to say something kind and couldn’t. Donna came by once, stood in the doorway of his office, and left when she saw the look on his face. After that, no one tried again.
-----
A week later, a box arrived. Brown cardboard, tattered at the edges, the kind of thing no one would think twice about. His name scrawled on top in black ink. Harvey Specter.
He couldn’t open it. Not at first. He left it by the wall, just another piece of evidence of everything he’d failed to protect. Days passed that way, with the blinds permanently drawn, tie discarded somewhere he couldn’t remember, glass of scotch never out of arm's reach. The world kept moving like nothing had happened. But for Harvey, it was as though time had stopped the moment Mike did.
Eventually, he couldn’t stand it anymore; the silence, the not knowing. He sat down at the table, pulled the box closer, and tore through the tape with unsteady hands.
The first thing he pulls out is the black suit jacket Mike was wearing the day he went in. Harvey swallows around the lump in his throat and carefully picks it up, like it's something fragile. Breakable. He lifts it to his nose and breathes it in. He feels his heart stutter in his chest. Because it smells like him. If he keeps his eyes closed, he can pretend that he's still here. That he's not buried six feet under in a cemetery nobody will visit.
His tears drip down and soak into the fabric. He fights the urge to shove it back in the box, because this is already too hard. Too much. But he doesn't. He sets it aside, wipes his eyes, and pushes on.
Mike's watch. Harvey used to make fun of him all the time for it. He'd offered to buy him a new one, a better one. But Mike always refused, he thinks part of that was because he knew how much Harvey hated it. And Harvey still hates it, because each tick of the second hand is now a taunt. You're still here and Mike isn't.
Harvey places it aside and tries not to picture the thousands of times he noticed it worn backward on Mike's wrist.
There's the rest of Mike's clothes. Harvey doesn't smell them. He can't. But he thinks about sealing them in a Ziploc bag, saving them for another time. He knows it's pathetic. He doesn't care.
Mike's wallet. Harvey doesn't open it. He knows better. He knows he'll be met with a picture on an ID of Mike. Eyes bright, smile on his face. Alive. So alive. He sets it next to the watch.
At the bottom of the box is a thin stack of envelopes.
They were plain, cheap. Some creased, others stained where ink had bled through. Every one of them had his name written across the front in Mike’s unmistakable scrawl: Harvey. No return address, no stamp. Just the name, as if Mike needed to see it written down to remember it was real.
Harvey stared at them for a long time, counting without meaning to. Four of them. He didn’t know how far apart they were written--days, weeks, months. He could only imagine the silence that filled the spaces between them.
He reached for one and stopped, fingers hovering just above the paper. It felt wrong to open it. Like breaking some fragile barrier between the living and the dead. But he needed something, anything to bridge the space between then and now. Between who they were and what he’d lost.
So with hands that wouldn’t stop shaking, tears already blurring his vision, Harvey slid a finger under the flap of the first envelope and began to read.
Harvey,
I’m okay. (I know you probably rolled your eyes just now, but I mean it.) Things are… fine. Or as fine as they can be, I guess. You don’t have to worry about me. I know you’re going to anyway, because that’s what you do, but I really am doing all right.
Turns out I’m pretty good at adapting. Life kind of trained me for that, didn’t it? Different rules, different faces, same old story, right? Keep your head down, learn the system, figure out who to stay away from and who’ll sneak you an extra cup of coffee if you play your cards right. I’m still me, Harvey. Just a slightly less caffeinated version.
The bed here’s awful, by the way. I’m definitely leaving a bad Yelp review when I get out. I will say though, after a few nights you stop noticing. (Or maybe that’s just resignation setting in. Either way, it’s character building, right?)
Just remind me to never make fun of your thread count again. I used to think you were ridiculous for caring about that stuff, but now I get it. Comfort’s a luxury. Guess I just had to spend some time sleeping on a vinyl-covered brick to appreciate Egyptian cotton.
The food’s… something. I’d complain, but then I remembered the time you tried to bake cookies and swapped a cup of sugar for a cup of salt. My tongue still tingles from time to time. So really, it’s not that different. Just no expensive whiskey to wash it all down with and fewer sarcastic comments.
I don’t know when I’ll see you again. Hopefully soon. It’s weird, missing someone’s stupid face, but here we are. I keep thinking about the last thing you said before they took me back, that you’d fix this. I believe you. I always have.
Try not to blame yourself for any of it, okay? I mean that. You did what you could. And I’ll keep doing what I can.
Tell Donna I said hi. Tell Louis to stop being Louis. And take care of yourself for once, because I’m not there to do it for you.
-Mike
-----
The room was smaller than Harvey expected.
Bare walls, a table bolted to the floor, and two metal chairs that scraped against the concrete when the guard told him to sit. Everything smelled faintly of bleach and whatever it was the bleach was trying to hide.
Then the door opened.
Mike looked thinner. His hair was shorter, uneven, like someone had used dull clippers in a hurry. The jumpsuit hung too loose on his frame, but his smile was the same. Tired at the corners, but still there.
“Harvey,” Mike said as he sat down, leaning back like it was any other meeting. “Nice tie. Did you pick that just to make me purposely feel underdressed?”
Harvey exhaled a shaky laugh, half relief, half disbelief. “You look like shit,” he said, because what else was there to say?
“Yeah, well, the spa’s booked out until next month.”
The joke landed, barely. The guard shifted outside the door, and Harvey’s knuckles whitened around the stack of papers he’d brought. Case notes, motions, things he’d been working through the night to draft.
“I’ve been talking to Cahill,” Harvey said, his voice sharper now, clipped from too many sleepless hours. “There’s a chance we can reopen this. The evidence on your deal--”
“Harvey,” Mike interrupted gently, “you don’t have to--”
“I do. You shouldn’t even be here, Mike.”
For a moment, Mike just looked at him. His eyes softened, something like pride buried under exhaustion. “You’ll figure it out. You always do.”
“If it's the last thing I do,” Harvey said, because admitting doubt wasn’t an option. Not here. Not when Mike needed to see certainty in his face.
They talked about nothing for a while after that--books, the food, the way Louis still managed to find new ways to annoy people. Harvey tried to laugh in the right places. Mike tried to sound like he wasn’t counting the minutes.
When the guard finally knocked on the door, Harvey stood. Mike did too.
“Don’t worry about me,” Mike said quietly. “I’m okay.”
“Yeah?” Harvey’s voice cracked just enough to give him away.
“Yeah.” Mike smiled again, small and stubborn.
Harvey shook his head, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He wanted to say you don’t belong here, or I’m sorry, or it should be me in here, but all that came out was, “I’ll get you out.”
“I know.”
It was automatic--Mike’s go-to reply, as familiar as breathing. But something in it made Harvey’s chest tighten anyway.
When the door closed behind him, Harvey didn’t look back. He couldn’t.
-----
He came back to himself in the silence of his apartment.
The letter still sat open in front of him, the paper soft where his fingers had pressed too hard. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring at it. Long enough for the scotch to go warm, for the city outside to shift from dusk to dark.
He told himself he’d stop after one. That was all he could handle.
But his hand was already reaching for the next envelope.
-----
Harvey,
I know I said I was fine, and I meant it at the time. But it’s been...honestly, I don’t even know how long. The lights never really change in here, so the days sort of blur together. You’d hate it. No clocks, no sense of control.
I got into it with someone yesterday. Don’t freak out, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Just a misunderstanding. You’d probably call it me “running my mouth again.” You’d be right. I should’ve known better. I do now.
I’m okay. Just sore.
It’s hard, Harvey. I didn’t think it would be easy, but I didn’t think it would feel like this either. The air feels heavy, like it’s pressing down on you all the time. You learn not to react. You learn that noise gets attention, and attention gets you hurt.
I try to keep my head down. I remember what you said, to pick your battles. So I do. Except sometimes it doesn’t matter. Sometimes the fight finds you anyway.
I’m not telling you this so you’ll worry. I just need you to understand. I need someone to know. Writing to you--it helps. Makes it feel like I’m somewhere else for a few minutes. Like I’m sitting in your office again, pretending to work while you pretend not to notice.
I wish I could say this to your face, but I can’t. I don’t want you to see me like this. You’ve already done enough.
I’m scared, Harvey. There. I said it. I’m scared, and I don’t know what’s coming next.
But I’m still here. Still trying. Still believing you’ll find a way.
Don’t give up on me, okay? Even if I sound like I have.
-Mike
-----
The hallway lights never went out completely. They just dimmed, buzzing faintly through the vents, painting the world in muted yellows.
Mike lay on his side, eyes open, staring at the underside of the top bunk. His ribs ached every time he breathed. His lip was split, his shoulder bruised, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from crying. The last thing he needed was for someone to hear.
He’d learned that lesson the hard way, that noise drew attention, and attention meant pain. So he kept still. Let the mattress press against every bruise until the ache felt like proof he was still alive.
He wasn’t sure how long he stayed like that before he sat up. He moved carefully, the way you move when everything hurts but stopping feels worse. He reached under his bunk and pulled out the small pad of lined paper they issued him, the one he’d been saving.
The pen felt heavy in his hand. He hesitated for a long moment, staring at the blank page.
When he finally started writing, it wasn’t neat like his first letter. His hand trembled, ink smudging across the page. But once he wrote Harvey at the top, something in him steadied. The words began to spill out, hesitant at first, then faster. He wrote because it was the only thing that made him feel close to something real. Because he couldn’t say what he wanted to say in that room with the guards and the cameras.
I’m scared, Harvey.
He paused after writing it, stared at the sentence until it blurred. Then he folded the paper, tucked it back into the envelope, and slid it under his pillow. He turned onto his side, jaw clenched against the sound in his throat. The tears came anyway. Quiet, careful. The kind that no one could hear.
-----
Harvey had been warned before he went in--something about an “incident,” an altercation, nothing that required details. He’d barely let the guard finish before he was demanding a visit.
Now he was sitting in that same cold room again, hands clasped, heart pounding against his ribs.
The door opened.
Mike walked in slowly. His face was thinner now, cheek hollowed, jaw shadowed by bruises that hadn’t fully healed. A fading cut ran along his temple, and there were marks at his wrists where someone’s grip had been too tight.
Harvey’s stomach dropped. “Oh my god, Mike.”
Mike’s mouth twitched--half a smile, half something else. “You should see the other guy,” he said, but it didn’t sound like a joke this time.
“Who did this to you? What the hell happened?” Harvey demanded to know. His voice loud enough that the guard at the door glanced over.
“Nothing happened,” Mike said quickly. “It’s fine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I said it’s fine, Harvey.” The way Mike said his name, low and urgent, made him stop. “Just… don’t, okay? It won’t help.”
Harvey leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “It’s not supposed to be like this.”
Mike’s smile faltered. “You think I don’t know that?” He looked down, hands twisting together before he forced them still. “Just… please. Keep working on it. You said you’d find a way.”
“I will,” Harvey said immediately, because there was no world in which he could say anything else. “I’m going to get you out.”
Mike nodded, but the hope in his eyes was smaller this time. Dimmer.
“I know,” he said, but it came out quiet, almost gentle.
Harvey wanted to reach across the table, wanted to touch his hand, his shoulder, anything, but he didn’t. The guard’s gaze burned against the back of his neck.
When they called time, Mike stood first. “Don’t worry about me,” he said, the same words as before, but softer now.
“Yeah,” Harvey managed, his voice barely holding together. “Sure.”
Mike gave him that same tired smile. “You always were a terrible liar.”
And then the door closed between them again.
-----
The paper was damp before he even realized he was crying. He’d been gripping it too tightly, the edges creased, the ink starting to blur where his thumb brushed over the words.
I’m scared, Harvey.
He read it again. And again.
It didn’t sound like Mike. Or maybe it did, and he’d just never let himself hear it before. The words felt too small for how much they hurt.
He leaned back, the letter trembling in his hands. The city outside his window was loud tonight, sirens, horns, life continuing without permission, but all he could hear was that single line echoing in his head.
He’d seen the bruises. He’d seen the way Mike flinched when he reached for him, the way his smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore. And he’d believed him anyway. Because believing him meant believing there was still time.
Harvey let out a shaky breath, dragged a hand down his face. The scotch on the table beside him had gone untouched. He didn’t deserve to dull it.
He looked down at the letter again. The way Mike’s handwriting tilted slightly to the right, the ink darker where he’d pressed harder on certain words.
He could see it now. He could see the weight behind the jokes, the exhaustion buried under the bravado. The spaces between the sentences said more than the sentences themselves ever could.
For a long time, he just sat there, the sound of paper crinkling every time his hands trembled. Then he reached for the box again. There were two letters left.
He told himself not to. That he needed a break, that he couldn’t handle another.
But his fingers were already brushing against the next envelope.
-----
Harvey,
They told me you came by again. I didn’t go.
I wanted to, I really did,but I couldn’t do it this time. Not with the way things are. Not with the way you look at me like I’m someone you can still save. I don’t want that to be the last thing I see when I close my eyes.
You’re going to hate that, I know. You’ll think I’m shutting you out. You’ll think it’s pride or guilt or whatever else you always accuse me of. Maybe you’re right. But mostly… I just don’t want you to have to see this version of me again.
It’s worse now. The air, the noise, the people. It’s all heavier somehow. There’s no space in my head that doesn’t echo. Every sound feels like it’s coming from inside my bones.
I keep telling myself that you’re close to fixing it. That maybe next week, or the one after that, you’ll walk in here with that look you get when you’ve already won. I try to hold onto that. But there are days, more of them lately, when I can’t.
You said once that running was what I did best. I think maybe this is just me running again. Staying behind these walls so you don’t have to see what they’ve done to me.
Don’t come back for a while, okay? Just… work the case. Yell at someone. Pretend everything’s fine. You’re better at that than I ever was.
Tell Donna I said hi. She’ll know what that means.
-Mike
-----
The guard didn’t even look up when he said it.
“Ross declined the visit.”
Just that. No explanation. No chance to argue. The words hit like a door slamming shut.
Harvey blinked, as if he hadn’t heard right. “What do you mean, declined?”
“Means he doesn’t want to see you,” the guard said, flipping a page on his clipboard. “You can schedule again in two weeks.”
Harvey’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. There were half a dozen things he wanted to say; legal threats, pleas, something about rights and access, but all of it dissolved before it reached the air.
He stepped aside, out of the line, the fluorescent lights buzzing too loud above him. The waiting room was half-empty, plastic chairs, peeling paint, the faint smell of stale coffee. He stood there for a long time, not moving, trying to convince himself that this was temporary. That Mike must’ve had a reason. That it wasn’t personal.
But the truth pressed in anyway, quiet and heavy. Mike didn’t want him to see.
Harvey turned before the guard could tell him to. He walked out past the metal detectors, past the parking lot, past the chain-link fence topped with barbed wire. The cold air hit his face, but it didn’t do anything to clear his head.
By the time he reached his car, his hands were shaking. He gripped the steering wheel, breathing through his teeth, forcing it down. He’d promised Mike he’d get him out, and instead, Mike didn't even want to see him anymore.
The worst part was, he understood why.
-----
Harvey's throat closed. He could still see it--standing in that sterile waiting room, being told “Ross declined the visit.” The way the words had hit him like a verdict. He’d told himself there had to be a reason. There always was, with Mike.
But reading this, the reason was clear.
Not with the way you look at me like I’m someone you can still save.
He pressed his palm flat against the page, as if he could reach through it somehow, rewrite the ending, make Mike look up instead of turning away.
He remembered pacing his apartment after that day. He remembered Donna calling, his phone lighting up, unanswered. The anger, the helplessness, the fear that had felt too much like grief even then.
Now, holding the letter, all of it collapsed into something quieter. Smaller. He wasn’t angry anymore. Just tired.
He reached the end: Don’t come back for a while, okay? and felt the room tilt around him. He folded the page once, carefully this time, and set it aside with the others.
There was only one left. One letter waiting for him like a wound he hadn’t had the courage to look at yet.
He told himself he’d keep going, that he owed Mike that much, but when he looked at the last envelope, his chest tightened. He wasn’t ready. Not yet.
Because Harvey already knew the ending of the story. He’d lived it.
And seeing it written in Mike’s handwriting would make it real in a way nothing else had.
He needed a break.
He pushed the letters aside, reached for the half-empty bottle on the table, and poured a glass. The sleeping pills were still where he’d left them, in the cabinet above the sink. He swallowed one, then chased it with the whiskey, the burn spreading slow through his throat.
For a while he just sat there, glass in hand, the city’s reflection flickering across the window. The noise outside felt far away, like it belonged to another world entirely. Eventually, the edges of the room softened. The letters blurred. His head dipped forward.
And when he finally drifted under, he dreamed.
Mike was there. Alive. Smiling like he hadn’t died. Smiling like Harvey hadn’t gone with him in a way. The light hit him the same way it used to in the office--soft, golden, unreal. He said something Harvey couldn’t quite hear, but it didn’t matter. He was laughing. Breathing. Real.
For the first time since Mike had been gone, Harvey let himself believe it.
-----
The lights in the hallway had gone out again.
Not all of them--just the ones near his cell block, flickering weakly before settling into a dim, constant buzz. Somewhere down the corridor, a guard’s radio crackled, then fell silent.
Mike sat on the edge of his bunk, hands trembling over the small pad of paper. His knuckles were split, scabbed over from where he’d hit the wall earlier, just to feel something that wasn’t fear.
They’d already shown him how easy it was. Cornered him in the dark hallway by the laundry room, a knife pressed against his throat, a hand clamped over his mouth as a guard stood back and pretended not to see. They’d let him go that time. They wouldn’t the next.
He knew it now. The knowing settled deep in his bones, heavy and final.
He pulled out the paper and stared at it. The pen felt too small for everything he needed to say.
He started the letter the same way he always did.
Harvey,
His hand shook when he wrote the first line. He stopped often, sometimes to wipe at his tears, sometimes just to breathe. The sound of the pen scratching across the page was the only thing keeping him tethered.
He wrote until the words blurred, until there was nothing left to say. Then he folded the paper carefully, slipped it under his mattress, and sat back against the wall.
His eyes drifted shut. For a moment, he pictured Harvey’s face--the way his smile had always felt like love, the way he looked at him like his world began and ended with him.
He set the pen down and stared at his hands.
They were still shaking, but not as badly now. The words were out. That was something.
For the first time in a long while, the fear felt smaller than the tired.
-----
The last letter stayed where he’d left it.
Every morning he told himself he’d read it. Every night he found a new excuse not to. It sat on the table beside the others, a small, pale thing against the dark wood--completely harmless, until he remembered what it contained.
He tried to lose himself in work. In noise. In anything that wasn’t silence. But silence had a way of finding him. It filled the apartment, crawled into every corner, pressed against him until it felt like he couldn't breathe.
By the seventh night, the bottle was half-empty and the city outside was a smear of lights and rain through the windows.
He sat on the floor, back against the couch, the box open beside him. Mike’s things--his watch, his jacket, the letters--spread out around him like evidence in a case he’d already lost.
The loneliness had been a slow burn until now. Tonight, it scorched everything left standing.
-----
Harvey still remembered the sound the door made when it opened--that haunting metallic groan that always made his stomach knot.
Mike looked worse. Paler. Thinner. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. But when he saw Harvey, he smiled anyway.
“Hey,” he said, voice softer than usual.
“Hey yourself,” Harvey answered, setting the folder down on the table. “Cahill’s close. He’s got something. Just a few more days.”
Mike nodded, like he believed it. “That’s great.”
Harvey leaned forward, talking too fast. “He thinks he can prove misconduct in the plea deal. Once we get that, we can--”
“Harvey,” Mike interrupted, calm. “You don’t have to sell me on it. I know you’re doing everything you can.”
“I’m not giving up,” Harvey said, fierce, because he needed Mike to see how much he meant it.
“I know,” Mike said again, and there was something final in it. Something Harvey didn’t recognize until much later.
The guard’s voice cut through the air: “Time.”
Harvey stood, gathering his papers, and started to walk toward the door. He felt Mike move before he saw it--fingers curling around his sleeve, pulling him back.
Mike stood, eyes glassy but focused, and then he hugged him.
It wasn’t quick. It wasn’t polite. It was desperate.
Harvey froze for a half-second, then held on. Tight. He could feel Mike’s heartbeat against his chest, could feel how thin he’d gotten, how hard he was shaking. The guard said something, but neither of them moved. Not until the guard’s hand was on Mike’s shoulder, prying them apart.
Even then, Mike held on for just one second longer.
When he finally let go, it felt like losing him.
-----
The memory lingered, cruel and vivid, long after Harvey opened his eyes. The room was still spinning, his drink forgotten beside him.
He reached for the last envelope. His thumb brushed over the flap.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered, but his fingers were already tearing it open.
The paper inside was thinner than the others, almost translucent from being handled too much. His name, Harvey--was written across the top in uneven handwriting.
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and began to read.
Harvey,
Things have gotten worse.
I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I think I’ve been waiting for it. They’ve stopped pretending there are rules here.
It’s not safe anymore. It hasn’t been for a while, but now it feels closer. They cornered me last week, just to prove they could. One of them had a knife. The guard at the end of the hall just stood there and watched. I screamed, and no one came. They let me go, but I don’t think they will next time.
I’m not telling you this so you’ll feel guilty. I’m telling you because I don’t want there to be silence between us--not this time. You always said to tell you everything, so here it is. I’m scared, Harvey. I don’t want to die here.
I keep thinking about everything you did for me. Every time you believed in me when no one else would. You gave me a life I never thought I’d get to have. You let me stand beside you and pretend, for a while, that I belonged there. You made me believe it was real.
I wish we had more time. I wish I’d told you what I was trying to say a hundred times and never could. You know what I mean. You always do.
Please don’t carry this, Harvey. Don’t turn it into another thing you have to fix. You already did enough. You made me into someone worth missing.
Thank you for that.
Take care of yourself. And Donna. She’ll make sure you don’t fall apart completely, even when you want to.
If you ever think of me, I hope it’s the good stuff you remember. The stupid jokes, the late nights, the wins that shouldn’t have been possible. Not this. Never this.
I don’t want this to be the last thing you think of when you think of me.
I love you, Harvey.
-Mike
The words blurred long before he reached the end.
Harvey tried to breathe, but it came out in fragments, the sound breaking apart in his chest. He set the letter down on the floor beside him and stared at it through the haze in his eyes. The paper looked too fragile to hold what it carried.
He picked it back up, fingers trembling, and pressed it against his chest like he could keep it safe there, like he could hold Mike together by sheer will.
“I love you, too,” he whispered. The words dragged out of him, rough and quiet and truer than anything he’d ever said.
He sat there until the city went quiet, until the first light of morning slid through the blinds. The letters lay spread out across the floor, edges curled, ink glinting faintly in the pale dawn.
Four letters.
Four words.
Love, written the only way Mike ever could.