I still think of him.
I think about what he’d say if he knew the things I now do during my day. My work, my art, my garden-variety adventures. I think about his adoring words and try to pick the exact ones he would use. Maybe he’d say Magnificent. Or Spectacular. Or Breathtaking. No, it’d be magnificent. He would say magnificent.
I think about what it would be like if I could share a bad day with him. He would certainly empathize with how bad my anxiety has gotten of late. But would he want to speak with me more, or less? Would he draw closer, or move farther?
I think about if he’s created something new. I loved his art. I wonder what he created, how it was received, how he feels about it.
I think about if he’s found love.
If he has, I wonder what she’s like. Is she beautiful, talented and supremely kind? Is she lonely, lost and looking for someone to hold her? Is she intelligent, challenging, and someone who moves him to grow? Is she all of the above?
Does he say things like “I didn’t think you existed, but I am so glad you do” to her? I think if this would make me jealous. Perhaps, it’s better I don’t know.
Or maybe he hasn’t found love yet. Not the kind he wanted. Maybe he’s been weighing his options, cautious to not commit too soon. He was looking for a love that endures, after all.
I think about his life, about how little I knew of it and how I blew up every little detail to fill the life-size hole he left me with. I think about his blue couch, his home, his city. About his trip to South America and his birthday. About his plans to call his sister and meet his best friends soon. I wonder how it all went. I wonder if he remembered my birthday.
I think of whether he will ever reach out to me. If he will come to my city and we will meet. I wonder what it would be like if we were together.
Or maybe I’ll go to his city and we won’t meet.
I think of my choice and second-guess it sometimes. I wonder if he knew why I left, I said no goodbyes, that isn’t usually how I do it. Although I know it was the right choice, I wonder why I still think of him. I wonder if I will forget him someday,
I think about whether he thinks about me. Am I a pressing thought, a passing thought, or maybe, a forgotten one?
I can’t unthink these thoughts or undo our relationship. When I stand before its ruins, all I can do is hold on for dear life and soldier on through those background scores of our love.
I know I’ve played this record a few too many times but eventually, I’ll tire of it. Until then, I’ll think of him.