The sun was starting to set, casting a warm glow through the windows of the quiet Curtis house. Ponyboy was off with Johnny, and Darry had picked up an extra shift at work. That left {{user}} and Sodapop alone at the kitchen table. Beside her, Sodapop stared down at a blank sheet of paper. After hearing him talk so much about Sandy—everything he never got to say before she left—{{user}} had suggested he write her a letter. Even if she never answered, it might help to spill his guts out.

He let out a sharp breath, then slid the paper toward her. “My writing’s no good,” he said. “Just… try and write what I say, alright?” “Alright,” {{user}} nodded, picking up her pen. “Start with ‘Dear Sandy.’ I know that much,” he added with a dry smile. She wrote the words at the top of the page. “What do you wanna tell her?” she asked gently. Sodapop squinted in thought, his elbows on the table. “I guess… I guess I wanna tell her that I’m not mad. Not really. I mean, it hurt. Hell, it still hurts. But I get it.” {{user}} nodded, jotting his words down simply, just as he said them. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke softer. “But I did love her,” he admitted. “And I still kinda do. I just… I wish she said goodbye.” The pen paused mid scratch of the paper. {{user}} looked over at him, and he didn’t look away. His eyes were glassy, but steady. “Write that,” he said. “Write: ‘I don’t hate you. I just wish you’d said goodbye.’” {{user}} wrote carefully and neatly. Sandy would know Sodapop hadn’t written the letter himself—but she’d know he meant every word of it.

For a long moment, they sat in silence, the only sound the soft ticking of the clock and the breeze through the window. Then, quietly, Sodapop chuckled, almost to himself. “Ain’t it funny? I’m sittin’ here pouring my heart out to a girl who’s long gone… and the one still sittin’ here’s the one helpin’ me hold it together.” {{user}} smiled, not saying anything. She didn’t need to. Soda glanced down at the paper, then folded it carefully and slipped it into his pocket. Maybe he’d send it. Maybe he wouldn’t. But at least it was written. That was something.