When the sun goes down, I think about you.
I think about the sadness in your voice and the feeling of futility in my hands. I instinctively reach for my phone to call you, but I am hit with the words you last said to me—you told me that you didn’t need my help, that you didn’t want me by your side.
I think about how you asked me to check in with you, before you disappeared. You told me you weren’t well, that you weren’t happy anymore. I can’t help but wonder whether your thoughts are stealing the brightness from your sky.
I worry about you at night. I worry that one day, you will succumb to the lies of your mind. I worry that you will vanish from this world and that I will never know. Because we were two strangers that weren’t supposed to meet; we were a world of our own. And if you leave, you will take that world with you.
But you refused my help—you refused me. Maybe it’s because you knew I wouldn’t let you stay in despair. Maybe it’s because I was proof that you were worthy of love, and you weren’t prepared to admit that to yourself.
Maybe it’s because I made you happy, and the foreignness of joy frightened you.
Maybe it was because you knew that I would make you do anything and everything you needed to do in order to get better. To finally come home to yourself. Maybe you didn’t want to see me try. You didn’t think you were worthy of it; you didn’t think that happiness was possible for you anymore.
I regret every time I laughed at your obscene jokes. I wince when I remember how you said that if we hadn’t made it in 5 years, we would just end it altogether. Somehow, it was funny then. You always had a way of making me laugh, even when you couldn’t make yourself smile.
But I worry now.