It’s been too many years and I’m bigger in a lot of places that I’d rather you didn’t see. I remember how you loved to squeeze my waist and cringe thinking about you comparing current me to 18-year-old-me.
Would you still think I’m beautiful?
I’m not sure. Was it circumstantial? The way you thought I was perfect. Were you so in love that my flaws become inconsequential? Sometimes, I beat myself up at night picking apart all the areas I’m afraid you’d notice aren’t as aesthetically pleasing as they once were. You don’t really know me anymore. My voice is still the same. My laugh, the same. My heart, roughly the same. But what if you can’t sense that?
Would you still feel how much we used to love each other?
We’ve had sex with different people and been in different states and done different jobs. We’ve been hurt and devastated and faced hardships without one another. I have no idea what you eat for breakfast these days. You’ve never met my best friend. I get scared that I wouldn’t recognize your face.
But then, I see you tagged in something and my stomach sinks somewhere uncomfortably deep. Because you’re the same. And I know that face. I used to memorize that face. The dimple. Those kind eyes. And how much I love(d) that face.
Would you ever meet me for coffee?
I don’t mean to be presumptuous. I don’t mean to make this weird. Maybe we’d meet up and feel nothing. Maybe we’d hug and our bodies would react like strangers do. Maybe we’d politely smile and talk about the weather, quietly waiting for a moment to interject a goodbye.
I don’t really know.
I don’t know how it would be. I can imagine it a thousand times in a thousand different ways. But I’ll never actually know.
We’ll never actually know.
Do you want to know?