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My Dearest Davey,
If you’re reading this, then I finally made it to Santa Fe.
I suppose you’ll be frowning at that. You always did hate when I got poetic about things that didn’t quite exist. Said I had a habit of chasing mirages like they owed me money. Maybe you were right. You usually were, which is a fact I tried not to admit too often on account of my pride being louder than my sense.
But I need you to understand something, just this once, without arguing me into the ground.
Santa Fe was never a place I could point to on a map.
It was the feeling of not running anymore.
You remember how I used to talk about it? Warm sun, open sky, no one telling you what you’re worth or what you owe. I painted it like a picture so bright it almost hurt to look at. Truth is, I think I needed it to be that bright. Needed something to pull me forward when everything else kept dragging me back.
And then there was you.
Funny thing, that.
For a while, you started to feel like Santa Fe too.
Not the escape part, not at first. You were… steadier than that. You were books stacked neat, words said carefully, hands that didn’t shake even when everything else did. You were the kind of safe I didn’t trust because I didn’t think I deserved it.
But you stood there anyway. Stubborn as anything.
And somewhere along the line, I realized that when I talked about freedom, what I meant was a life where I didn’t have to pretend. A life where I could stand next to you and not feel like I was stealing something I wasn’t meant to have.
I wanted that. God, Davey, I wanted that more than anything.
But wanting ain’t the same as getting.
I tried, you know. I tried to be someone who could stay. Someone who didn’t look at every open horizon like it was calling his name louder than anything else. I tried to quiet that voice.
I couldn’t.
And it ain’t your fault. Don’t you dare twist this into something you did wrong. You were the best thing that ever happened to me, which might be the problem right there. You gave me something real, and I didn’t know how to hold it without thinking I’d break it.
Or lose it.
Or ruin it.
Maybe this is me running again. You’d probably say it is. You’d cross your arms, tilt your head, and give me that look that says you’ve already figured me out three steps ahead.
But this time… I’m not running from anything.
I’m going to something.
Peace, maybe. Quiet. A place where the noise in my head finally settles down and I can breathe without feeling like I’m borrowing the air.
That’s my Santa Fe.
And I think… I think I’ll finally be able to rest there.
I’m sorry I couldn’t build that life with you. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay long enough to prove that I could be better than what I’ve always been. You deserved that version of me, the one who didn’t keep one foot out the door.
I hope you find someone who stays.
No. Scratch that.
I hope you find a life so full and bright that you don’t need anyone to complete it. You’ve always been enough on your own, even if you don’t see it. Especially then.
Keep writing. Keep arguing. Keep believing the world can be kinder than it is, because sometimes it listens to people like you.
And Davey—
Don’t come looking for me.
Not because I don’t want you to.
But because if you did, I think I’d turn right back around.
And I can’t do that. Not again.
So let me have this one selfish thing.
Let me have my Santa Fe.
And remember me not as the boy who couldn’t stay, but as the one who loved you enough to wish he could’ve.
Forever yours, in whatever sky I find,
Jack