A letter that will never be sent
This...This is something I needed to get out of my system. This is something I wish I had had the guts to tell someone, a long time ago, before I lost him, before I knew I'd lost him. It's a letter, or just a thought, something that's been stuck on my throat for what seems like ages now. It will probably make no sense at all. Either way, here it goes:
The last time I saw you, the last time we saw each other was - unexpected would be the word, I think. The last time I saw your face was over a year ago; and the last time I heard your voice? So much longer than that.
I think you'd be surprised, if you knew how much my mind goes back to that day, to the moment when our eyes met, and recognition struck our faces. To the very moment when you went right passed me, and I keep wishing, over and over, that I'd stopped you, that I'd gone after you and made you talk to me.
Instead, I let you pass me by, with no acknowledgement other than what I think - hope, so much - I saw in your eyes. And after that moment, I find myself wondering about what I would have said, had I stopped you. My mind gets dizzy with all the possibilities and yet, I still don't know the answer, for, of all things I wanted to say, I don't know which would be the one I'd choose, which would be the right one to choose. I'd probably stare at you and let you talk first. It was always you who had the questions; it was always you who came to me, thinking I had all the answers.
It still makes me uneasy, remembering the impact that running into you like that had on me; I lost track of what I was saying, I lost track of what I was thinking and I think my heart skipped a beat or two, as well. It was really not the way I expected an afternoon out with my mother to end, or the way I expected I'd see you again, for that matter. And that I let you go (that you let me go) as easily as that, it still haunts me. The moment was over so fast I only realised what had happened when you were two blocks away from me, and all I could do was stare at your back in disbelief, still processing the fact that you had just walked away from me, without either of us uttering a single word to each other.
So I couldn't help but wonder, every other day, just what I would have said, had I had the courage to make you face me, face our past and everything we left unsaid and unfinished.
I would go about my day thinking of everything I would have said: I would tell you how much I missed you, missed being the first one you'd tell whenever you had learned to play a new song, how the memory of you showing me your first notes on how to play bass was one of my favourites memories of all time, missed the times when we looked at each other and needed no words to know what the other was thinking. After that day, you lingered on my thoughts for a very long time.
And then, your mother died. No one was more surprised than I, to find tears on my face, so instantly after being told about her. No one was as taken aback as I was to feel the sharp pain that seemed to steal my breath away. I couldn't hold the tears back, it was like learning to breathe all over again. All I could think about was you, alone with no one to turn to. It hit me like a train, and my mind kept conjuring up vision after vision of you, coming home to find nothing but your mother's ashes scattered on the floor, the smell of smoke filling the air.
The day I heard the news about your mother was spent trying to simply not to think about it, trying to push back the tears. All day long - and that whole week, too - I had this sickening feeling on my belly, this urge, telling me something was deeply wrong. During the few moments I did manage to forget about it, I'd start wondering at that constant feeling of wrongness, and then I'd remember. That night I cried long and hard, thinking of the despair I knew you'd be feeling - and all the while, a hidden and mostly ignored little voice would whisper, wondering if I will ever be capable of crying this hard the day my own mother dies.
That's when it all started again: I'd sit and wonder about all the things I'd say to you, if I had the chance. If I had the chance, I might tell you about the night I cried and about the grief I felt, for your suffering and tears.
Had I the chance, I'd hold you like I used to do, I'd tell you whatever you needed to hear, just like I've always done. If I had the chance, I'd tell you how horribly sorry I was, and still am, for not being there when you needed it the most; I'd tell you about how I miss being the one to fix you, the one to make it better, about how much I regret not being the one with the answers and solutions for everything, how I regret you no longer come looking for me.
Most of all, I'd tell you about how much I miss the times we had. I'd thank you, I think, for a few of those which I'm sure will always be some of the best years of my life. I'd tell you about how I miss the times when one of your smiles could always light my day, and one word from me would make you want to give those smiles to me. I'd tell you I want it back, I want it all back; the feeling that we had all the world at our feet, that as long as we were together, nothing mattered. I'd tell you about how I want that feeling of trusting someone so unconditionally back; the partnership I could never get back, that I could never seem to have with anyone else.
Somehow, the thing that scares me the most - it shouldn't be a surprise, though - is the power that the mere memory of you has over me; that I don't even need your presence to make me experience all this longing for what we lost. There's a part of me, I think, that will never get tired of the 'what ifs', that will keep on playing scenarios in my head - like what it could have been like, if I had tried harder, if I had kept offering you my help, instead of having stopped offering the way I did, when you first refused it. There's even this smallest, deeply burried part, that wonders at what it would have been like, if I had said 'yes', that one time, when you made a pass at me. It wonders, if it would have turned out differently, made us stronger. Or maybe, it would have made the relationship and amount of trust we had in each other impossible. Maybe I was exactly what you needed me to be; someone who didn't expect you to put on a show all the time, someone who wouldn't draw you away whenever you felt down, but would rather sit beside you and keep quiet, crying at the smallest sign of tears in your eyes - I used to say I couldn't stand the sight of men crying, but really, it was only ever one man who could make me cry on the spot. But I wasn't there long enough, I failed you. And for that, more than anything, I'd ask for your forgiveness, I'd ask you to forgive my absence.
And then, if I could muster all the courage I know I don't have, I'd tell you all about my hopes. That, if you'd have me, I'd like to try again. I'd ask, not to go back, but to go forward. I'd ask you to let me in again. And sometimes, when I feel like fooling myself, I pretend you'd let me.
The last time I saw you, the last time we saw each other was - unexpected would be the word, I think. The last time I saw your face was over a year ago; and the last time I heard your voice? So much longer than that.
I think you'd be surprised, if you knew how much my mind goes back to that day, to the moment when our eyes met, and recognition struck our faces. To the very moment when you went right passed me, and I keep wishing, over and over, that I'd stopped you, that I'd gone after you and made you talk to me.
Instead, I let you pass me by, with no acknowledgement other than what I think - hope, so much - I saw in your eyes. And after that moment, I find myself wondering about what I would have said, had I stopped you. My mind gets dizzy with all the possibilities and yet, I still don't know the answer, for, of all things I wanted to say, I don't know which would be the one I'd choose, which would be the right one to choose. I'd probably stare at you and let you talk first. It was always you who had the questions; it was always you who came to me, thinking I had all the answers.
It still makes me uneasy, remembering the impact that running into you like that had on me; I lost track of what I was saying, I lost track of what I was thinking and I think my heart skipped a beat or two, as well. It was really not the way I expected an afternoon out with my mother to end, or the way I expected I'd see you again, for that matter. And that I let you go (that you let me go) as easily as that, it still haunts me. The moment was over so fast I only realised what had happened when you were two blocks away from me, and all I could do was stare at your back in disbelief, still processing the fact that you had just walked away from me, without either of us uttering a single word to each other.
So I couldn't help but wonder, every other day, just what I would have said, had I had the courage to make you face me, face our past and everything we left unsaid and unfinished.
I would go about my day thinking of everything I would have said: I would tell you how much I missed you, missed being the first one you'd tell whenever you had learned to play a new song, how the memory of you showing me your first notes on how to play bass was one of my favourites memories of all time, missed the times when we looked at each other and needed no words to know what the other was thinking. After that day, you lingered on my thoughts for a very long time.
And then, your mother died. No one was more surprised than I, to find tears on my face, so instantly after being told about her. No one was as taken aback as I was to feel the sharp pain that seemed to steal my breath away. I couldn't hold the tears back, it was like learning to breathe all over again. All I could think about was you, alone with no one to turn to. It hit me like a train, and my mind kept conjuring up vision after vision of you, coming home to find nothing but your mother's ashes scattered on the floor, the smell of smoke filling the air.
The day I heard the news about your mother was spent trying to simply not to think about it, trying to push back the tears. All day long - and that whole week, too - I had this sickening feeling on my belly, this urge, telling me something was deeply wrong. During the few moments I did manage to forget about it, I'd start wondering at that constant feeling of wrongness, and then I'd remember. That night I cried long and hard, thinking of the despair I knew you'd be feeling - and all the while, a hidden and mostly ignored little voice would whisper, wondering if I will ever be capable of crying this hard the day my own mother dies.
That's when it all started again: I'd sit and wonder about all the things I'd say to you, if I had the chance. If I had the chance, I might tell you about the night I cried and about the grief I felt, for your suffering and tears.
Had I the chance, I'd hold you like I used to do, I'd tell you whatever you needed to hear, just like I've always done. If I had the chance, I'd tell you how horribly sorry I was, and still am, for not being there when you needed it the most; I'd tell you about how I miss being the one to fix you, the one to make it better, about how much I regret not being the one with the answers and solutions for everything, how I regret you no longer come looking for me.
Most of all, I'd tell you about how much I miss the times we had. I'd thank you, I think, for a few of those which I'm sure will always be some of the best years of my life. I'd tell you about how I miss the times when one of your smiles could always light my day, and one word from me would make you want to give those smiles to me. I'd tell you I want it back, I want it all back; the feeling that we had all the world at our feet, that as long as we were together, nothing mattered. I'd tell you about how I want that feeling of trusting someone so unconditionally back; the partnership I could never get back, that I could never seem to have with anyone else.
Somehow, the thing that scares me the most - it shouldn't be a surprise, though - is the power that the mere memory of you has over me; that I don't even need your presence to make me experience all this longing for what we lost. There's a part of me, I think, that will never get tired of the 'what ifs', that will keep on playing scenarios in my head - like what it could have been like, if I had tried harder, if I had kept offering you my help, instead of having stopped offering the way I did, when you first refused it. There's even this smallest, deeply burried part, that wonders at what it would have been like, if I had said 'yes', that one time, when you made a pass at me. It wonders, if it would have turned out differently, made us stronger. Or maybe, it would have made the relationship and amount of trust we had in each other impossible. Maybe I was exactly what you needed me to be; someone who didn't expect you to put on a show all the time, someone who wouldn't draw you away whenever you felt down, but would rather sit beside you and keep quiet, crying at the smallest sign of tears in your eyes - I used to say I couldn't stand the sight of men crying, but really, it was only ever one man who could make me cry on the spot. But I wasn't there long enough, I failed you. And for that, more than anything, I'd ask for your forgiveness, I'd ask you to forgive my absence.
And then, if I could muster all the courage I know I don't have, I'd tell you all about my hopes. That, if you'd have me, I'd like to try again. I'd ask, not to go back, but to go forward. I'd ask you to let me in again. And sometimes, when I feel like fooling myself, I pretend you'd let me.