I am haunted by this feeling of finding this one term that will express how everything, everything, was left unsaid—between you and me. I am still looking for words, searching them in dictionaries, through narratives that speak of emotions. Maybe I will find all the words I am looking for through dialogues between two estranged lovers, or maybe estranged friends—people who were together but weren't together. Or maybe I will write them down, scattered like broken pieces of glass, beautiful yet devastating: for you to read, pick them up and not let your fingers bleed. I will write them for you.
That last phone call, the ring still echoes in my mind: What if I would've had received it?
Between all the stories I told you and wanted to tell, I have had so many things to ask—somethings my wonderment would never answer.
How could you easily spot me in the crowd of thousands, call me up and remark my every movement, every expression? How many times did you practice my name to say it exactly the way I wanted you to say it? Why did you always keep a count of my coffee intake—two cups, five cups, seven cups. How much did you miss me on the New Year's eve? How could you remember everything about us in so much detail? If you knew, or remember me telling you, that I read your eyes like I read poems? Or if I told you that I wrote a quatrain about your eyes? And that I spoke so little because you understood everything even without me saying? How you could never lose your temper when with me? Or that how you'd always wait for me, without complaining? If you remember that night when you called and told me that you were experiencing one of the happiest moments in your life and you wanted me to be the first person to know it? How you'd react if I told you that you and I were past life lovers? If you know that I made a playlist of all the songs, of all the lyrics you'd text me? And "that" movie we watched sitting in the first row, because I wanted to watch it, will always be my favourite one?
Between all these questions I pondered, I told you stories: you'd laugh at my naiveness and always remembered their details. But there are stories I never told you—I assumed we had time.
About how I had a sob story about my every birthday till I was 16. About the boy, A, who lived next door and was my best friend (till I was 17) and I spent most of my time with—even though I could barely tolerate him. About how baby B, G and C came into my life. About how I put you to test without you even realizing it. And how sorry I was after I overlooked your presence while reading as we sat in that quaint cafe on the outskirts of the city. About how I saw you in every character I read or studied. About how I never came across anyone as gentle as you, and that how you had set the bar high for every person I'd meet after you. About how I should've never ignored your vision about this certain decision—you knew I'd regret it! About how we had this 'ritual' of always stopping by this place, to stretch our time together a bit longer, to not say goodbye. That I was never really in love with you, but if I would've had decided to relax my boundaries: it would have been just for you!
I decided to write this, probably ten years later, after we met—while I have so many lose ends to tie. I chose to write this down, with a never fading smile on my face with a realization that I had you, at some point, in my life. And when someone would just come across this; I hope they stop and remember about someone like you in their lives, keep their lives on hold for two seconds, smile, and get back to whatever they were doing.
I always assumed I was incapable of experiencing something like this.
