I wanted you to paint me in trust, and we would be the best of friends, because we’re too clever for love. I did a good job avoiding clichés.
All these years I decided for myself that being alone was freedom, and I still do. But even so when I befriended you, I was happy, in the purest sense of the word.
I was always really okay with spending time with myself, content of the things I did during the day, about my interests and passion and my ruminations. So I guess I was happy in some sense by myself. As you would later put it so brilliantly, “My happiness depends on me, so you’re off the hook.”
Other than being different, I took pride in my quest to be better than who I was, every time I looked back.
When I met you, I saw you as this remarkable, “perfection personified” individual, and I knew I just had to catch up to that. You just being you, made me into this refined polar opposite of myself whilst I retained the essence of what made me, me. For this I am and will always be grateful, more so than these words allow me to express.
Something else that brought me joy about this friendship was how it went about the same way with you, as it did for me, perhaps not as intensely but nonetheless, it was there.
And I smile so purely when I think of these oh-so-simple gestures from your end. It wouldn’t make too much of a difference if they never happened, but the fact that they did, makes all the difference. Because I knew, you were different too. Unlike anyone I have had the privilege to meet, and the entirety of it was absurd to you, and even then you were up for it. I am glad you could find a grain of sugar in the salt shaker that I am.
I always looked forward to it so much, to have these nice delightful talks with you. Where simple things were said, where the only punch-line to the stupid jokes I cracked was perhaps my own silliness. And you know it wasn’t funny, but we’d laugh till it was.
Everything about it, from the beginning , right to the very end makes me happy and I often find myself thinking about it. It takes everything in my bones to not jot down every little exquisite intricate detail.
All that is written above is not even close as to why I loved our numbered days. Our endless numbered days.
I cannot pretend that I do not feel any regret. We will soon find ourselves walking our separate ways, and all the memories I hold so dearly would haunt me but will eventually be numbed when they will fade and feel like looking through a fogged mirror. Only to be left as a series of blurs which would be better off to not have occurred.
Why it happened the way it did? I do not want to understand it. But it breaks me. I have been fighting against this irrationality these past months. , but I guess this old town, as like any other town, would never not be a bother. This old town made up of strangers disguised as peers.
I feel something so crushing which I have never felt before, but which oddly feels familiar. I always despised when “I’m just a person” would often be used to advocate what you cannot do. But here I am, thinking to myself, “I am so human” realizing there is nothing left in my hands about this situation. You are gone now, and I know it is a choice. As you let things unfold as they did, you asked me why I didn’t. I didn’t because I’m not giving up. I gave up enough.
It is funny how singular act can overturn the entire stability of a happening. What’s funnier is that it does not seem funny to me.
I do not know what or whom I should burden with the blame. Me, you, everyone but us, or the circumstance. If there is no one to blame, it simply must be the times we’re going through.
If I knew that night was the last time, I would’ve said goodbye. I would’ve said something more. I would’ve said goodbye.
I tried to survive on a lie I couldn’t endure. I hate it. I hate that in the end it was ephemeral.
Being alone is freedom, is a choice I made long back. But there is a difference between a choice and compulsion, and my life is riddled with the latter.
You’ve been gone for quite some time and it finally feels like the end.
Will you remember me? I am not sure. I am not sure about anything I have written. Maybe it is better this way. What do I know? Maybe the reason we could find nothing at all, was that there was nothing there all along.
I will not speak anymore because I have heard a bit too much by now. But I know I want it back. To not be able to be friends with the one person I genuinely appreciated. If it is true that I lost this, if I have lost you, I’d surely lose myself too.
For what it is worth, for everything that could’ve been, I wish one last time, imagining the two of us, may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten.