A.N. This is another attempt at a fanficlet… I usually write original stuff, but I'll try anything once (except for a few things… J ). P.S. it's a letter from Sara to Derek for the first bit…


Dear Derek

It's Valentine's Day here at Juilliard and I miss you more than you can imagine. I know that sounds cheesy, but I'm not quite as hip-hopping, non-fluff advocate as you are. I just wanted to let you know that I love you, especially today.

 There's a new student here this term, her name is Anna-Mae and she is a street girl turned ballerina. Imagine that. She's my new roommate, since my last one got expelled for smoking pot. At least the level of fumes has gone down. J She's from the Bronx, and she came here for ballet. Will wonders never cease?

I really miss my mom today. It's been so long since I really talked to her, and I remember that I really wanted to tell her that I loved her before she died, but it came too soon. Man, she was so busy that day in the flower shop, Valentine's, you know…

Well, sweetie, this is just a short one to greet you for Valentines, and I should be closing this up.



Derek folded up the letter and put in an old Adidas shoebox and placed it on the top shelf of his closet. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a Coke. He missed Sara so much, it was eating away at him. Sure, people thought that black and white couldn't be together, because it was wrong, but he knew otherwise. He also didn't give a rip about what anyone else thought, because Sara was special. More special than any of the other girls he had dated. He decided that it was time to pay a visit to Sara. And soon, because he was going nuts.

Dear Derek

Spring is so beautiful! The daffy-do-dills are up and singing to us all every morning. Your surprise visit was so sweet! Thanks so much for brightening my day. You are loveable, you know that? I am never going to forget being kicked out of McDonalds because you started spouting out what a good ballerina I am…whatever, I am not good enough yet for that. You know how much I hate flattery, but you are good. Very good, Mr.!

            I am sorry that all my letters have just been short little ditties, but I am really low on free time, with all the work I have to do. I miss the easy classes I used to take!

            All my love,


Derek placed the letter back in its envelope and once again put it in the Adidas shoebox. He didn't have the heart to write back to tell her that he couldn't visit her again for a while, so he decided to just forget about it. Forget about Sara for a while, until he could scrounge up enough money to get to her. He shoved the shoebox into the farthest corner of his closet and covered it with an old Yankees sweatshirt. The less he thought about her, the less it ate away at him. He still loved her, of course, but for the time being it was simply too difficult to read her letters and smile, because he never really had a girlfriend who was his best friend, too. It was too much to deal with, Sara being away.

Soon her letters got less and less frequent. They became shorter and shorter, and in the corner of his closet still sat the shoebox, under the sweatshirt. Derek re-read her longer letters and analyzed them as far as they would go, in hopes of finding another message hidden that he hadn't seen before. Finally, in early June, another letter came from Juilliard:

Dear Derek

I don't know how to tell you this, because I feel like I don't know you, even though Sara talked about you every day, so I guess I do know you in a way. Two weeks ago, as Sara and I were headed for the subway to go shopping, a man walked quickly towards us and asked us the time. As Sara rolled up her sleeve to look at her watch he pressed a gun into her side. He told me not to scream or say anything or he would shoot her. So I stayed silent. I promise I didn't say anything. The man asked Sara if she had any drugs or money or jewellery. She said that the only thing she had on her was her credit card and the friendship ring that you gave her, Derek. The man took her credit card and he told her to take the ring off. "I can't," Sara said, "My best friend gave it to me." He pressed the tip of the gun further between her ribs and she winced. "Give it to me now." He demanded, whispering into her ear. She took off the ring and flung it across the floor of the subway station, "Grab, it!" she told me, and so I ran to get the ring. "You took one step too far missy, and now part of you is going to stain the floor." And he shot her in the head and ran. It was like everything was silent and in slow motion. I screamed and people came running, chasing the man and calling 911. But Sara was already dead. I don't know how you will take this, but don't blame yourself, or the ring you gave her, she loved you and she was willing to die for loving you. The funeral is on Sunday afternoon on the 15th of June. It's at the old cemetery downtown. She would want you to be there, Derek, and I want to meet the man who loved her.



Derek tilted the envelope into his hand and the friendship ring tumbled out onto his palm. For the first time in a while he let a tear slip down his face. Then another and another, and soon many tears joined the first one. He slipped the ring onto a chain and put it around his neck. He read the inscription that he remembered so well telling the jeweller to engrave. "To my best friend, Sara"