Did I make a mistake breaking up with you? My friends say “no,” my heart says “maybe,” and my brain doesn’t know anything. Now that you’re leaving, I miss you more than I thought I would. For some reason, it feels good; to have been close enough with someone to miss them. But it sucks, too, because now I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again.
You say we can be friends, but do you mean it? I know how easy it is to say “yes” and then just never speak to one another ever again. Is that how we will be? A shattered dream of a future together? I will miss your friendship and I can guarantee you that ten years down the road, I will still think and wonder about you.
I hope you get everything sorted out. I hope you realize how amazing you are–how amazing you can be. Please don’t be stuck in a rut the rest of your life; you deserve more than that. We were gonna fight through this together… and if you allow it, we still will.
Did I break your heart? Did it hurt so much that you threw my letters away? Do you reread them with disgust, thinking I filled your head with bullshit, crumple them up, then throw them away into your waste basket? Do you look at that waste basket often? Do they seem to glare at you even harder from that cold, metal bin? Or do you not look twice as you throw away my words? Do you even know what you’re feeling? Because I don’t. Then again, I never really have. This all started fast, and I suppose that’s how it ended, too.
I realize that I love you, and I always will. The fact that I miss you is proof enough, to me. I’m going to walk into what will soon be only a room for one, and see your once-cluttered desk wiped clean of the math we did together. Where it was once sprinkled with snow-white papers, there will be only the imitation swirls of wood on its plastic surface. Your air fresheners will be gone, too, or maybe they will linger, pushing a thick scent (that can only remind me of you) into the half-filled air. The bean bag that we cried on, laughed on, and passed out on will vanish, leaving only the gaudy, minimally thick carpet behind where its soft, cozy fabric used to be. The containers of condoms, food, and a first aid kit that I stole a BandAid from when you were sleeping will disappear, too. The drawer of silverware that jingled in sweet protest whenever it was yanked open will cease to make its cacophonous music. The bin with the animal cups will be gone. The towel hanger that indifferently sported your hats will have dispersed into the thin air. The dresser–made from that same fake wood that the desk is made of–will be undressed from the inside out–stripped of its contents. And just like that… with your towels gone from the bathroom, your toiletries removed from the sink, and your bong taken from its hiding place and stashed into that blue backpack… you’ll be gone. It’ll be like you were never even there. The room won’t know any different; kids have lived in and left that room many times, and that is how it has always been and how it will always be. But it is in this absence of you that the south-facing room that always seems so stiflingly hot, will now be cold and barren. It will be the silent type of absence that reeks with desertion and the loss of a friend–one of my best friends.
I dread going into that room and seeing that reality. And the worst will be the things unseen. The memories will be the loudest reminder of you. Those wild nights that we had there, the laughs we shared… all replayed before me, as if wanting to rub my nose in the dust that you left behind when you rushed out of my life. And all I can do is watch you leave, and wonder–or even worse, hope–that you will come back into my life.
Will I ever see those pretty eyes again? That striped hoodie you always wear? Your worn down Airwalk shoes that could definitely stand to be replaced? Will I ever smoke with you again out on those rocks outside the dorm? Will I ever hear you laugh? Even see your smile? I think all of these things and feel so guilty for openly missing you when I know that I was the one who kicked you out of my life. I love you, but I’m not in love with you, anymore. Is that a reasonable thing to say? I don’t know. I just don’t want you to leave. We are good, just not good for each other. I just want to be friends. I want to support you, and I want you to support me. Can we not be able to still lean on each other when we’re about to fall down?
Can we be friends? Do you mean it?