I hope when you’re reading this, you’ve just come home from school and your cheeks hurt from laughing all day with our friends, and you’re wearing one of your favorite outfits, and your hair is in one of those intricate braids I always admire but I’ve never told you. I hope you’re doing the psych homework you love, and Prada is sleeping at the foot of your bed. I hope you’re listening to that one weird album you love from that band that even I didn’t know about, and your mom is cooking your favorite meal for dinner (spaghetti, no meatballs, extra mushrooms), and you’re drinking extra strong black coffee because you know you’re gonna be up all night studying. I hope you’re in your happiest state possible, and I hope you find your way back to it after all of this is said and done.
Now for the hard part. It’s 3:30 in the morning, you’re fast asleep feet away from me in my bed, but I couldn’t sleep knowing what’s coming. By the time you’re reading this, they’ve taken me. I want you to know I’m not scared. Yes, my hands are trembling like leaves in November as I’m writing this, but you know me…or maybe you don’t, but they always are. I know what’s coming for me, and I’m prepared to handle it. What I’m not prepared to handle is the thought of you worrying about me after I tell you all of this. I’m not scared, Lydia, so please don’t be scared for me.
My name is Stiles Stilinski. I live with my dad, the Sheriff of Beacon Hills. I’m a senior at Beacon Hills High School, I play lacrosse (or try to), I love Star Wars, I have a piece of shit blue Jeep that is literally held together by duct tape, and I know you like the back of my damn hand, Lydia Martin.
We have a pack. You, me, and all of the idiots I’m going to tell you about. We’ve literally been to hell and back with them. I’m praying to any God that this will help you remember what our lives really are. This group of people is our home, Lydia. Find them. Stick with them. Never let them go.
My best friend is Scott McCall. I don’t know what my evaporation has done to you two, but he’s one of your best friends as well. He is such a hero it hurts him, but he’s a better person than I could ever even attempt to be. He loves his friends, us, more than anything on this planet, and he’ll protect us unwaveringly, even if that surrenders his own safety. Sophomore year, he was bitten by a werewolf, and it flipped our world upside down. You’re part of that world.
Malia Tate. You taught her how to drive (god help her). She’s a werecoyote. She’s my…friend? Fellow pack member? Not important, what is important is that you find her. She is fiercely loyal and brave, and one of the most selfless people I know. Our pack needs her, and so do you.
Mason, Liam, and Hayden. The new creatures. They’re small, like, Scrappy Doo small, so even your short self might have to look down to find them. But when you do, you’ll be grateful, because even if they are annoying toddlers sometimes, they have been amazing additions to our pack. At the end of the day, they just needed a home like the rest of us, and they fit right in.
And then there’s you, Lydia. You’re a banshee. Your powers have kept us alive time after time, life threatening situation after life threatening situation. Maybe you know that, maybe you don’t, and maybe you’ve already thrown this letter away thinking I’m a lunatic, but somehow I know you haven’t. Because whether you remember me or not, not even something as horrific as this could erase a piece of you from my mind. Nothing could take away what I feel and know about you.
I know that you are strong beyond limits and intelligent beyond compare.I know you’ve built up walls so tall around you that you can no longer see the top of them. I know you’ve been chipping away at them for the past two years, and have so graciously let me peek in. I know that you still have a scar from where Prada bit you on your ankle. I know your favorite movie is Clueless, but you tell people it’s Moulin Rouge. I know that you’re going to win a Fields Medal someday. I know that you possess everything you need to live the life you dream of.
I feel like we didn’t get enough time. I feel like I was taken in the middle of the climax of our story. I feel that you are going to be upset after reading this. I feel like you’re going to cry, and even though you look beautiful while doing it, my heart aches picturing that. I feel a physical hole in my chest imagining myself without you. I feel that I was never meant to live without you by my side, helping me figure things out. Most of all, I feel like you’ll remember. You told me you would, and I feel like I have to believe you. You’ve never given me a reason not to.
Remember, Lydia? Remember the semi formal? Remember that giant gift I brought to your birthday party? Remember using toilet paper as tissue in my bedroom? Remember the locker room floor? Remember me fainting after we defeated the nogitsune? Remember tangling red string around your fingers on my bed night after night as we tried to untangle our lives? Remember the Jeep?
I know this letter is a mess, which is an accurate representation of me, and I’m hoping that will help rather than hurt. I know you can do this, Lydia. If there’s anything I know, it’s that you will stop at nothing to save the people you care about, no matter the consequences. And now I know I’m one of those people, and it’s my favorite fact in the world. It’s a fact that will keep me going, wherever I’m going. Even if I never go back home, I will hold onto the fact that Lydia Martin chose to care about me, out of all people on this Earth. And that will be enough.
This isn’t a goodbye letter, Lydia. This is just a piece of the puzzle I know you’ll put together. I have faith in you, always have, always will, and that faith lets me know that this is not the end of us.
I feel like death warmed over, but today has been productive; I’ve finally managed to catch up with studying, I just need to read Hard Times before Monday, so I’m gonna dedicate tomorrow to that. I made lettuce wraps for lunch, I’m going to complete some more headcanon prompts and maybe do a little bit of writing (maybe? or at least plan something), and I’m making spaghetti and meatballs for dinner and chocolata lava puddings for after.
I lie about a lot of things. But I won’t say that my mother is the best, the way other people do when talking about their own mothers.
My mother isn’t the best if the best mother means someone who’s able to buy her children whatever they want.
My mother isn’t the best if the best mother means someone who’s perfect and perfect means never getting angry. Because my mother raises her voice the same way flags are raised on windy days.
My mother isn’t the best cook of the family and the best mother is supposed to make a mean bowl of spaghetti and meatballs that her children would recall fondly over Christmas dinner thirty years later. In our house, we have after dinner pancakes instead and no-bake lasagne.
My mother isn’t perfect if the perfect mom wears stilletos and makeup and golden earrings. My mother doesn’t even have a single piercing on her body. She wears mom jeans and a silver watch, or a gold one on occasion. Her hair is cut short and she lets me dye it darker sometimes.
My mother isn’t the best mom and that’s okay because I’m not necessarily the best daughter anyway. She isn’t perfect, but by God, she’s always made us feel loved no matter what.