Unsent letter #1

I look at this blank page and think of our time together, more than one fourth of my life, that’s more years than many of my relationships/friendships could have survived. Or maybe not? Since I don’t have that many relationships nor friendships.

It’s nearly one year since the last time I talked with you, and most days I’m still missing you like crazy, like you’re still an irreplaceable part of my life, like the thought of you and our friendship would still bring a little joy to my disastrous life. But I know I’m not, and just like that last phone call between us, ‘for closure’ you said, we are not friend anymore, I’m no longer valuable or close enough or whatsoever enough to be kept in your journey ahead.

(Maybe I’m wrong about many things, but being your friend is never one of them.)

Sometimes for a split second of being dumbarse who values past friendship and selfish curiosity over the current personal well-being and functioning self-preservation, I go on and check your blog, both the writing blog that you are still setting as private and still revoking my access and the website that you often post your stories and bookmark new stories you read. For that I apologise. I’m sorry for not being with you when the tragedy happened and you might need my support the most. I’m sorry for being late and neglecting our friendship, neglecting you. I’m sorry for being unaware of your unhappiness and for making you think that what between us is nothing more than a hobby. Above all, I’m sorry for reaching out too late.

Things, especially tragedies or whatever considered unhappy, happened in our separate lives, and they always leave scars. Let me make something crystal clear though, you are never ever a freaking hobby. Having you in my life makes it meaningful and adventurous. Do you remember that many times during our friendship we often completed each other’s thoughts, finished each other’s sentences, like we possessed twin brains? In some ways, being with you not only made me happy, but also taught me many new things, amongst them courage. I learned more about the faceted world via your eyes; I admired the beautiful and criticised the damned; I got interested (and did research) in many topics that you found amusing; we shared great many moments. I treasure them all, and that’s what makes our friendship precious in my eyes.

But apparently it’s not enough to maintain our so-called friendship, for you are now fundamentally changed, and the friend that I am looking for ‘doesn’t exist’.

I have so many things I wish to tell you, and that thought still makes me stop for a moment and wonder if I’m still allowed to. I wish to know more about your current life, how are you doing during this pandemic. I want to know about your family and if you are doing better after the funeral and the anniversary. I want to know because I’m still caring and not moving on yet. I want to share with you about my life, about the progressing divorce between my parents. And you’re right, maybe the fact that my parents are divorcing and I don’t ever need to come out to my father is not the same as your case, but I am truly free. I want to share with you how I felt after I came out with my mom. I want to celebrate your birthday. I want to tell you I like the new story you posted very much, and I want to share this new gem I find in the vast world of never ending books with you. So many things I wish I could do.

But I know I shan’t, that I should not pay this much attention to you, that my (onesided? unrequited? certainly stupid) ongoing trail follows the so-called friendship even after our closure is unhealthy.

I’m not allowed to. Not anymore.

Should I be happy and congratulate myself for not stepping into any stalking territory? I deleted my social media, my blog, everything that could remind me of you (and my father) or let us find each other by chance. Occasionally reading short stories you posted is the only thing that I keep because I love your writing; after all, it was one of the first things that brought us together.

I blame my inability to move on after the closure on the fact that life happened (no it’s not). My mom told me about my father’s infidelity a few weeks after our last phone call, hence the social media self-exiled. It screwed me over for several months, so much crying and wasted tears for that trash that donated fifty percent of my genes.

I guess I’m fundamentally changed too. I have no idea, maybe I’m not and still a vindictive failure of a human.

Dearest, I still love you so much, and I’m still sorry.

my hopefully last unsent letter to you. I am pretty sure that you will never find this.

I guess in the end we are nothing more than outsiders who happened to cross each other’s roads. Farewell my jade scale dragon with a marvellous golden heart. I wish you nothing but the best, you deserve happiness.