You were there for my 20th birthday, even though you didn’t have to be and I loved you for it. Loved you because you were having your midterms and had to study, and still you let me talk you into showing up because goddamn was I lonely, and needed somebody and you were my best friend, so of course, you acquiesced.
I remember long talks by the window, long drags on cigarettes that didn’t so much as burn as fuelled our flamed and we talked about long nothings that turned into somethings and I loved you then because you understood me, and we philosophized and imagined the way things should’ve been, could’ve been, might’ve been.
You were there the night I left. Giggling, laughing, talking like it wasn’t end of our friendship, and after I left, we attempted conversations that led to nowhere. Mostly because we were growing in directions that neither of us could really put into words. Because we’d never been the sort of people who needed to talk constantly; we managed to convince ourselves that our friendship was the kind that would withstand time. That didn’t need constant assurances, but Life happened, and we grew apart as strangers naturally do.
Today, I don’t know you anymore.
I don’t know the woman you’ve become; the steadily blooming, more confident, more self-assured one. I read your words with a tainted happiness; the kind of happy that weighs heavy partially from jealousy, and partially because I wish I could’ve been there to see you become this person. Because once upon a time, you used to be my person. The one I ran to with all my problems.
Yet again, I am faced with the heartbreaking knowledge that people grow; time moves on; things change and life happens.
We aren’t 20 anymore. Listening to Lana del Rey as we play make over. We aren’t drinking beer by the window, smoking under cherry blossoms. Philosophizing life into blank notebooks; trying to distract ourselves from the painful empty that we felt accutely, and maybe this is healthier, maybe this “growing up” business is better for our souls and our bodies, but I can’t help this sadness that threatens to engulf. Can’t battle the painful empty that swallows, and above all, can’t fight the tears that came as I read your blog. Can’t help but wish I knew who this was, how you were, and above all, can’t help but wish that I could just walk upstairs and knock on your door.