Man you could act. I was absolutely transfixed by your Truman Capote, and terrified by your villain in Mission Impossible. You made me weep in The Savages, and I hated you with everything in me in Doubt.

And now you’re gone.

Mr. Hoffman, what happened? What was the darkness that you couldn’t push back?

Could any of us have done anything to prevent it? Did you isolate yourself? Did you just give up at some point?

If you could come back, what would you say to us? What would you want us to learn from your tragic end?

Would you tell us to spend whatever it takes to stay away from our addictions? Would you tell us to live in rehab if we have to? Would you tell us celebrity is an awful, awful burden? Would you want us to laugh more and brood less? Would you tell us to find a really good group of friends and never let them go?

You can’t tell me what you’d say, and it’s just heartbreaking. I have nothing but sadness and compassion for you. No judgment at all. You didn’t wake up one morning when you were thirteen and say “You know what I want to do? I want to OD on heroine.” Of course not. Somehow you made choices along the way that culminated in your death, but it’s hard for me to point my finger at you. I can’t. I’m just so sad, and if I, a complete stranger, have cried real tears for your absence, I can’t imagine what your girls are going through. God bless them as they grieve.

I’m left with a sick feeling in my gut. I wish I knew what to do with it. Wish I could wrap all this up with a flourish–some pithy lesson, some great takeaway.

But I can’t, Mr. Hoffman. For now, I just want to honor the sadness you couldn’t shake. Maybe you wished more people knew about how desperately sad you were.

I’ll miss you.

Sincerely,
Your fan,
Chad