at the ceiling,
I think of you.
Please tell me.
Do you still dream of working for that company on the East Coast? Have you made amends with your mother yet? Do you still watch those infuriatingly pretentious films and play shitty covers of depressing songs that used to make me cry?
Comparing yourself to others is tough. There is always someone smarter. Someone richer. Someone with more Bumble dates than you. Social comparison is part of our human biology.
You have forgotten how we used to be. How happy we once were. You broke your promise of not letting me go.
You remember everything. It is both a blessing and a curse. It is both your gift and your kryptonite.
It makes me happy when I think of the good things… when I remember you.
If we were having coffee right now, even silence between us would be comfortable, I know it. When you notice the soft music wafting across the room, you start to rock your head to its tune, a hint of a smile playing on your lips. And I would probably smile, thankful for you—you who makes me believe “okay” is possible, even for me.
My hope is that, from time to time, you can pick up this letter and read it with Grandma, and remind yourself that you were — for one boy, at the very least — the most important thing in the world.
Nostalgia is a traitor. It manipulates you into thinking that things were more beautiful than they actually were. Do not believe it. Do not be deceived.