There were letters. There were scripts. There were group photos. But what arrived at Jennifer Aniston’s house two weeks after Matthew Perry’s passing was none of those.

It came in a plain brown envelope. No note. No label. Just her name, written in thick black ink: Jen.

At first, she thought it was fan mail. Then she saw the handwriting.
It wasn’t recent. It was old — unmistakably Matthew’s, from the way he wrote capital E’s like backward 3s. Her hands shook a little.

She didn’t open it that day.

She left it on the table in her home office, under a framed photo of the six of them sitting on the Friends couch, arms linked, eyes half closed from laughter. For days, she walked past it. For days, she didn’t touch it.

Then one night, sometime after midnight, she sat down and peeled the flap open.

Inside was a single cassette tape.
And a small folded piece of paper that read:
“Only for you. If you ever need to laugh again.”

Jennifer didn’t own a cassette player anymore. But the next morning, she called someone. Within hours, one was delivered to her doorstep.

She sat on the floor like she used to in her 20s, knees pulled up to her chest, and slid the tape into the machine. It clicked.

The sound came in slowly — a little hiss, then a voice.

“Okay. So if you’re hearing this, I guess I’m probably… gone. Or bored. Or hiding from another press junket.”

It was Matthew. His voice — lighter than she remembered it, younger, full of sarcasm and warmth.

The recording was 11 minutes long. Just him. Talking. Telling jokes. Some were new. Some were old, things he used to whisper between takes when she forgot her lines.

But somewhere around minute five, it changed.

“Jen,” he said. “You always laughed at things no one else noticed. Even when I was off, even when I was a mess, you gave me that look like I could still nail the punchline. And most days… I lived for that look.”

She paused the tape.

When she pressed play again, he was halfway through a joke about a duck, a leather couch, and a completely fictional fourth roommate named ‘Frank with the weird hands.’

And she laughed. Out loud. Alone.
Then she cried.

That tape never made it to the public. She never told the press. But a few weeks later, during an interview about aging in Hollywood, someone asked Jennifer if she ever rewatched Friends.

She smiled.
“Only when I need to hear his voice.”

What no one knew was that she wasn’t talking about reruns.

She kept the cassette in a small drawer, wrapped in the same note. And once in a while — on rainy days, or days when the city felt too quiet — she’d press play again.

Because sometimes, the best goodbyes aren’t grand gestures.
They’re just someone leaving behind a reason for you to smile, even after they’re gone.