January 30th 2017

Age: Twenty-Five

Lyrik

The cold winter chill slammed into my body, all the way into my bones. The frigid month of January was here, I don’t know why I still even lived in New York. I could’ve left, had the chance to a few times, but I couldn’t leave behind the memories.

Not yet.

But maybe I can after today, after yesterday. Hell, after this week.

Seeing him again was enough to send me running for the West Coast. Maybe he wouldn’t find me there to remind me of everything we had. Everything we once were.

I pick the letter up from the floor at my feet before slamming my front door shut. It was him. I knew it was, it was pointless to look outside to begin with. He moves fast, wouldn’t want to be caught.

The smooth envelope is white in my shaking hands. He must’ve ran out to the store soon after our argument. Well, my argument since all he did was stand there with his mouth agape trying to piece together the words I was saying.

I know that he’s the one who slid it under my door. It’s his handwriting, I can tell by the large slash crossing the T. His penmanship hasn’t changed since he rediscovered his writing style when we were in high school.

He used to stop in all the time to see me. Our friendship was tattered and worn, but it was all we had. Romanticism had long drifted away, we knew, well not we, because I still loved the hell out of him. But I’m pretty sure that he knew we wouldn’t ever be the same. So, we tugged at the strings of our friendship, holding on as tightly as possible, until we couldn’t any longer. Neither one of us willing to let go.

Until that night.

Then he disappeared, and I was left on my own to deal with it all. I worked gruesome hours, on my feet and still barely made ends meet. But I did it because I had to, like always, except I had someone else depending on me this time.

He was gone.

My best friend since I was five.

I didn’t bother informing him that I needed him.

But we needed him.

I’ve run the scenario of reaching out to him in my head, over and over again.

Would it have changed things? I don’t know.

But, the past is in the past and that’s where it should stay.

Where he should stay.

Placing him in that box that I put him in, was the right thing to do at the time.

Why now?

The one and only question disrupting my thoughts. Why now does he want to come around? Why now is he writing me letters?

We’re nothing.

All we’ve ever been was friends, best friends at one point. I had hoped for more, needed more from him.

God, did I ever want more. At one point in my life, my heart was solely set on him. On him being my one. Happiness was always around, because he was always there.

He was my happiness.

When he went on to chase his dreams, I was left in the shadows to pick up the broken pieces of me that he left behind.

I collected those broken shards one by one over the years, and put myself back together. Just when I thought I was whole, he’d come storming back into my life, only to wreck it all over again.

What would you have done?

I’ve played this game enough times to know how this situation will pan out.

He’ll beg for my forgiveness, hence the letter in my hand, he’ll promise that he won’t shut me out of his life like that again— yet he’ll do all of those things at the same time.

I’m tired of being alone.

Exhausted with his leaving every damn time.

I deserve more than his absence, friend or lover, I am worth more than silence.

I should give him some of his own medicine.

I should rip this letter into shreds like he’s done to my soul time and time again.

I turn the letter over in my hand, of course that’s how he’d address the crisp envelope, Just read it, even when he’s not here he’s still trying to take the decision from my hands.

It would serve him right if I did tear it apart. But then, how would I know what it says?

Walking briskly to my kitchen, I hold my hands over the garbage can with his letter.

I don’t want to make a mess.

Preparing to rip it in half, then in fourths and so on, I pause.

What if I need to read what he’s written?

This could be the closure that I’ve needed for so long.

I need him to say his final goodbyes, need him to stop barging back into my life interrupting every wall I’ve tried to build to protect myself from him.

Twenty-three years ago, he came barging into my life, he already knew who he was, full of spunk and he was troublesome. At five, I understood that. I should’ve walked away then.

I remember meeting him for the first time like it was yesterday.

Maybe you can help me if I tell you the story of Anson Blake and me. I’ll tell you how we met, how we crashed and burned and everything in the middle. It’ll be like you were looking over us. Then you can decide, would you read his letter too?

Is he worth hearing out or should I just let go and move on?