Dear Conrad

Dear Conrad,

It's a god damn shame that I had to learn your name from the obituary section of the newspaper. It's a god damn shame I had to recognize you on the news. It's a god damn shame that the good die young.

I was fifteen when I met you. You were a film student at NYU, I was going home from school. The bus, though not my preference for public transit, was my only option because my parents couldn't pick me up and the subway station that I got off temporarily closed due to a medical emergency.

I wish I had taken the subway and walked home from the second nearest station, I wish I could have gone home with a friend, god, do I wish I had used any other form of transportation besides the bus. Because although I wouldn't have met you, you'd still be alive, and I wouldn't be writing this to you.

I was fifteen, you were nineteen, and we were both young and reckless and free. Had I known you longer, maybe I wouldn't think that you were reckless and free. Maybe you would have been rigid and strict, or soft and kind. Maybe you would have been a little rough around the edges with a heart of gold.

You were only nineteen. Your life was just beginning, and god, I am so sorry I took that all away from you. I took your future away, I took your life away.

I was a stupid, naïve fifteen year old girl when I met you. I waited ten minutes for the bus before I got on. You were sitting towards the middle of the bus, and since all the seats were taken, I stood in the middle of the bus with one hand on the metal bar and the other pulling my uniform skirt a bit further down.

The man standing a few feet behind me was middle-aged and tired looking, his five o'clock shadow looking heavy and his shoulders hunched down as if he carried the weight of the world. Within a few short moments, the distance separating the middle-aged man from myself decreased greatly, and while I didn't notice, you surely did. Seconds later, I could feel the warmth of his breath on the crook of my neck, and I could smell the stench of his breath, as well. Everyone else on the bus thought nothing of it. The bus was getting quite crowded, after all.

He started talking to me. Asking me what my name was, what school I went to, telling me how pretty my hair was. Despite my discomfort, I answered vaguely, because I was far too naïve for my own good and couldn't keep my damn mouth shut.

After I stopped responding, he stopped asking questions. I felt a little more comfortable, a little more relaxed. It only started with the brush of hands. His would touch my own briefly before falling back limply to his side. After a few more brushes—which seemed unintentional at the time—his roaming hand touched my elbow. My eyes flicked back towards him uncomfortably. He stopped for a while, but moments later, his hand brushed my hair.

"Please stop," I muttered to him, but I guess he didn't hear me. I felt my skirt brush against the back of my thighs as he touched my leg.

"Stop," I said, a little louder this time. While people were aware of what was going on, they didn't other to stop him. Oh, it's nothing, just harmless touches is all.

Then his hand went below my skirt, and that's when you stood up.

"She said stop," you said lowly, and he just rolled his eyes at you. Now, the attention of several passengers nearby was caught as they looked up from their smart phones and magazines.

"I ain't doin' nothin'," he said to you as if you were nothing but a stupid boy.

"Keep your hands off her," you stood up then, towering a few inches over the man who touched me.

"What're you gonna do about it?" Then you punched him. Had I not been the one being touched, maybe I would have laughed a little bit. After all, he, a 5'4, good-for-nothing sleaze, was challenging you, a 6'1, well-built college student. But I was the one being touched by him, and I froze because I didn't know what else to do.

He was outraged and he tried to hit you back. Before he could level a punch, the bus stopped with a screech and you were knocked backwards towards the window while he was sent flying into you. The driver came back to us with a flushed face and told the guy off then kicked him off the bus while threatening to call the cops.

My heart was beating like a hummingbird's wings when you offered me your seat. I accepted with a wavering voice as you stood beside me the entire way home. Well, the bus stop nearest home.

I remember asking you why you didn't get off at your stop. You only laughed and said, "Well, someone's gotta be looking out for you, right?" I only smiled and nodded.

When we reached my stop, you got off with me. As the bus drove off, I asked you, "Are you gonna be all right on the way back?" You told me you were a big boy and could walk yourself home.

I didn't tell my parents what happened on the bus; I was too ashamed that I didn't do anything to stop him.

I read about you in the newspaper Sunday morning, two days after you saved me. You were beaten to death in an alley by an unknown mugger. The police were asking for anyone who knew any information to step forward; their identity would remain anonymous if they provided any tips.

After two days, my heart gave way and I told my parents what had happened. And I called the police.

I told them what happened on the bus. I told them everything, from getting on and off, start to finish. Before hanging up, I said the most true words I have ever said in my entire life: "He was the most honorable young man I have ever had the pleasure of encountering, despite the situation at hand."

They caught him a few days later based on the description I had given. I saw his face on TV, too, but while he was charged for sexual assault and murder, I requested that my story and my identity remain anonymous. I watched him get put behind bars before going to your funeral. I didn't make myself known, but I stayed hidden behind the trees.

I saw your mom cry as your dad held her and tried to stay strong. I saw your little sister talk about you like you put the stars in the sky. I saw your best friend clench his fists and tighten his jaw because no one was there to calm him down. I didn't make myself known— I couldn't. I couldn't face everyone that loved you, not when I know that I'm the reason you're buried decades too soon.

I didn't even say thank you. I suppose this is the thank you I've spent one and a half years trying to say.

I'm so sorry, Conrad. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't know you, but like I told the police, you're the most honorable man I've ever encountered. I'm so sorry death took you by the hand and led you away. I'm so sorry, Conrad Leinweber, 19 year old film student at NYU.