I was scared to write about you.
So many times I had felt the compulsion to finally put into words the feelings I had kept bottled in for so long. Once, I had found myself writing a few lines about you. But I felt the need to tear that page from my carefully-bound notebook and throw it away.
It has been 3 years, and I have not written about you just yet.
So why now? Why am I writing about you now? It’s not because Claire De Lune is playing on repeat. Or that it’s that lull in the afternoon that only coffee and company can cure. It’s not because of anything else except that I had asked a question. I had asked myself a simple question — one that which you can throw into the wind nonchalantly as you sip casually from a cold bottle of beer.
I had asked myself, when was the last time I felt happy?
It’s difficult to remember. I find it difficult to remember. And you and I know very well that that is a highly unusual statement to come from my lips. They say it’s a gift; this good memory that I have. The bitter, or perhaps the hurt, feel sorry for me because they say it’s a curse: that I would have to always remember when everybody else had forgotten.
So for me to say that it’s difficult to remember is an odd thing to say. But nevertheless I speak of the truth.
I remember how easy it had always been for me to write. It was always so easy for me to tap into the emotions that I felt and put them into words. And it was just as easy to share them to a few people. To you, especially. You seemed to never tire from the melodrama that were my stories and musings. You were always keen to read them. You were the boy who read my stories.
Before you, I used to feel immense relief when I finish a story. I used to feel ecstatic that I was able to go through a process both so painstaking and therapeutic at the same time.
But when you came along, it was immense comfort that I felt. Because after the catharsis that came with successfully stringing along phrases and punctuation there was an avid reader who knew the reason behind those words. You were the boy who read my stories.
I never quite thought of drifted apart as a fitting phrase. That is, until we did.
Stories have denouements. And ours, was not exempt from that.
The denouement to our story was painless at first – as with any ending that was not abrupt. But it was as if a huge block was dropped from a sky that is millions of miles away. You knew it would be painful, and you anticipate the intensity of the pain. But when it finally drops on your chest, you feel a pain so much more intense than you ever imagined.
And just like that, the boy who read my stories was gone.
I was scared to write about you because putting what I feel into words would mean admitting to the world, and to myself that you are no longer the boy who read my stories. I was scared to write about you because that would be admitting that it took me three years to admit to myself that you were not coming back. That you had turned your back on me permanently.
I was scared to write about you because if I were to recall the last time I was truly happy, it was when there was a boy who was eager to read my stories. And writing about you would mean that I have accepted the fact that as soon as I finish this, you would not be able to read what I have written.
So why now? Because I found it difficult to remember the last time I was happy. It’s not because my memory is starting to fail me. It’s simply because it hurts to know that the last time I was truly happy was when someone was waiting for me to finish what I had written so he could read it. Because that meant putting up with my melodramatic tendencies and my romanticisms. And that meant accepting the truest part of myself.
And I no longer have that.
But the real reason why I am finally writing this is that the boy who used to read my stories would hear me.
That despite the fact that I no longer have you, I have high hopes that I would meet someone who would read my stories like you used to. That that someone would be just as eager, and just as accepting of my melodramatic tendencies and romanticisms. I forgive you for turning your back completely without so much as a proper explanation. And I am asking for your forgiveness in return that I held on so much to our friendship and that I had not accepted sooner that it was time to let go. I am coming to terms with the fact that you and I have to walk on separate paths.
But just before I let you go completely, I request that you find that boy who used to read my stories deep inside you and that you let him read my story one last time. So that you, the boy who used to read my stories, know why I was scared to write about you. And that I no longer am.