Sometimes I wonder what you think about when you think about me. Sometimes I wonder if you flip back through the movie reel of your life, replaying our memories, replaying our laughs, replaying all the silly things we used to do as kids, and how easy the world was back then.
Sometimes I wonder when I cross your mind—is it when you’re out with your friends, throwing back drinks? Is it when you’re walking across campus, scrolling through your newsfeed, trying to pretend like you’re not looking at updates? Or is it when you’re in bed, covers pulled to your chin, just staring at a picture on the wall, wishing you could rewind, or fast-forward, or maybe just pause.
Sometimes when I think of you, I think about all the words I should have said, all the sentences and phrases letters and vowels stuck on my tongue peanut butter without milk.
I replay our conversations, thoughts running wild in my head, wondering what I could have said or done differently so that there wouldn’t be this open space between us. So that our conversations didn’t have to be so empty and strained.
I think about the early days, where we ran about our different schedules, our lives too busy to be intertwined. I think about all the times I should have said, ‘good luck,’ or ‘good morning,’ or maybe even smiled in your direction, just to remind you that I was there. That I cared.
I think about the nights I didn’t call. The stories I didn’t ask about. The memories I could have been a part of, a distant part, but a part nonetheless, but I assume because you weren’t the one to pick up the phone and dial, you didn’t care.
And maybe that’s where I went wrong.
Maybe I was always too damn selfish, too damn focused on myself and my dreams to see you standing in front of me, wanting nothing more than to be let in, to be listened to, to be understood. And there I was, staring at you from behind the glass, my nose pressed to the cool surface, watching but never opening. What kind of person am I?
It hurts, when I think about you. It hurts because all that I want to say bites at the back of my throat like a bumblebee. Like a bumblebee wanting nothing more than to break free, so it’s buzzing around in a frenzy, stinging any surface it touches.
All I want is to open my heart, to slide my fingers past the protective shell and let it crack, let you see all the parts I’ve kept hidden because I was too damn worried about being perfect than showing you who I really was, who I really am underneath.
I’m sorry for all I said when I shouldn’t have, for all I said to late, and for all that I still haven’t said, even after all this time.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there when I should have been. I’m sorry for making you feel as if you weren’t worthy of my love. I’m sorry that I keep saying sorry instead of just doing something about it. But the truth is, I’m not even sure what to do.
All I know, is that when I think about you, I think about smiles. I think about laughter. I think about story books and Christmas carols and fruit smoothies and sunshine. I think about memories too big they make my heart beat wild and loud in my chest.
When I think about you, I think about all the words I haven’t said, but are still trying to say. All the words slowly finding their way to the front of my mouth, to my lips, to the air between us. I’ll start by saying them here, now. And I hope you know I mean them. And that I’ve always meant to say them, I was just scared.
Truly, though, I hope you forgive me.
And know that I love you, even if I haven’t reminded you in a while.