A Letter to the Friend I Lost

Two years have gone by, and it feels strange knowing the anniversary of your passing is coming up again. When I found out through Facebook, I felt sick. How did I miss this? Between having a baby, getting married, starting a new job, my grandpa passing - all of these things tumbled on and on, and our friendship was pushed into the background of life. And that’s on me. Something I’ll always regret.

We used to laugh about the stories you’d tell me - made-up fantasies about living it large in L.A. You’d talk about your plans to travel, to apply for this role or that role, about the Days of Our Lives celebrities you’d meet. I’d listen, and in those early days you were wide-eyed and open to the world. I was excited for you! The world was your oyster and your world was L.A., and everything that existed within it.

You told me when you got into trouble, and you were brave enough to be honest with me. I didn’t agree with what you were doing, and when things got tough, I tried to be there for you as much as I could. I made you promise me that if you were ever thinking about taking the easy road out, you would call me. I know the loss of your beautiful mother Carol was hard on you. Of course it was. I wished I could have taken that pain away. When you’d break down and talk about her, I knew you missed her with every ounce of your soul.

So when I read the post by your father, I asked around and tried to understand what happened. No one could really give me any details. But I found out from your best friend Richard in time. I was shocked. To be honest, my heart was in my mouth. A vehicle struck you as you were crossing the street. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I was angry and then upset. You were supposed to be a famous writer, an actor - working on films and sets. I truly believed you would be. But time is selfish, and the industry is harsh. Those opportunities never came easily, or maybe never came at all.

I think about how alone you must have been during that time. I wonder if there was anything I could have done to intercept what happened. I wish I had known how deep things really were. But I’ll be honest, life got in the way. I wish I had just flown to see you to pack you up and bring you home. (And you know I would have tried my damn hardest!)

M*th is the devil. And as far as I’m concerned, the devil wanted to take you. You were one of the purest humans I had ever met. Couldn’t hurt a fly. Would bring roses to my gigs, buy tiaras and jewellery and pins for friends, show me articles of princess Diana and we’d bang on about some scene from a movie and how it related to us irl at the time. You’d never touched dr*gs before, and when you told me you had, I felt like the world had failed you. You said you’d tried it once, encouraged by a partner you were seeing, and that it made you feel like you could be anything.

You know how I protect - I swoop in. I tried my best to tell you I was here for you. You’d promise me you wouldn’t do it again. You’d seek help and tell me how well you were doing. We’d talk for hours. Then months would pass, you’d disappear, and then come back again. Over time, you became someone I didn’t recognise. I could hear it in your voice memos - things had taken a turn backwards. I knew I was speaking to a very different version of you.

I asked you to come home to Aotearoa. To you, that felt like failure. To me, it felt like protection. I just wanted to take you away from the loneliness you were carrying on your back. But you were adamant you would never leave America. I can’t lie - I was scared I’d never see you again.

You used to tell me that if anything ever happened to you, to look closely at one particular person. I don’t know how many times I wondered if that was just one of your dramatised statements - because we both know you were the ultimate drama writer. But once you were gone, it became easier to tell ourselves another story. That it was an accident. Even though we still have no proof or details. Even though it’s hard to know what to believe. I wish I could understand what happened that night. At this stage, I’m not sure I’ll ever really know, and that hurts.

Being your friend was an honor, Ian. You showed me softness when I didn’t deserve it, and humour in times of sadness. You were a rock when I felt alone and humiliated. And even though your time on earth was limited, you chased your dreams to the other side of the world…and that is bravery. You weren’t afraid to start life in another city on your own and you gave us all hope that things could work out if you only dared to try.

I’ll never forget you, Ian. No doubt you are with Mama Carol now, restored and happy, holding onto each other again at last.