The Boy Next Door
We weren't friends. Acquaintances, maybe. Neighbours. We shared the same generation, and I guess that is the point. We also shared the house and some occasional smiles. We didn't talk much. But somehow I feel, and I believe I've always been, that he takes some space in my life.
He had always been there; our mothers know each other, and our town was really small when we were kids. Even though he went to a different school. And it is not unusual or uncommon.
What is, we talked. We were not friends, but he always talked to me as if we were. Looking at his firends page now I understand he did this to lots of people: I see my classmates there, my friend's classmates, my friend's brother's classmates, younger kids. We talked; and I really liked him. He was an ever-smiling boy and then a tall handsome young man, absolutely compelling. Walking home from the station or standing in a line in a supermarket... he talked to me, smiled to me and we were friends those minutes.
He grew up so tall and charming. There were brief moments I even wanted him to be mine, wanted to be his. Took me some twenty years to notice.
He had a girlfriend. I saw them not long ago, walking home together, discussing what to have for dinner. So cute and so...normal. Like you and me. Like any of us. That is tanother point scaring me. A happy young couple a few months ago, and the 21-year-old girl a grieving widow now.
Looks like any of us can go to France on a holiday skiing or snowboarding with friends... and never come back alive. Not a disease, not any explainable condition, if there can be a good enough reason for dying. Just... life.
That's how it is with grown-ups. He was twenty-three. Does this mean we are all finally old enough to die?
It happened more than a month ago, and I heard of it this Wednesday. Didn't seem to realize back then and couldn't stop crying today. Must be the generation...and the house thing. And the smiles.
Artem, I am sorry there is no more you to smile, laugh and love. I am really really sorry. You are great, you know.
He had always been there; our mothers know each other, and our town was really small when we were kids. Even though he went to a different school. And it is not unusual or uncommon.
What is, we talked. We were not friends, but he always talked to me as if we were. Looking at his firends page now I understand he did this to lots of people: I see my classmates there, my friend's classmates, my friend's brother's classmates, younger kids. We talked; and I really liked him. He was an ever-smiling boy and then a tall handsome young man, absolutely compelling. Walking home from the station or standing in a line in a supermarket... he talked to me, smiled to me and we were friends those minutes.
He grew up so tall and charming. There were brief moments I even wanted him to be mine, wanted to be his. Took me some twenty years to notice.
He had a girlfriend. I saw them not long ago, walking home together, discussing what to have for dinner. So cute and so...normal. Like you and me. Like any of us. That is tanother point scaring me. A happy young couple a few months ago, and the 21-year-old girl a grieving widow now.
Looks like any of us can go to France on a holiday skiing or snowboarding with friends... and never come back alive. Not a disease, not any explainable condition, if there can be a good enough reason for dying. Just... life.
That's how it is with grown-ups. He was twenty-three. Does this mean we are all finally old enough to die?
It happened more than a month ago, and I heard of it this Wednesday. Didn't seem to realize back then and couldn't stop crying today. Must be the generation...and the house thing. And the smiles.
Artem, I am sorry there is no more you to smile, laugh and love. I am really really sorry. You are great, you know.