Strangers, Again

Adele played on the radio as I perused through dresses, skirts, and shirts and I was reminded of my solitude.  But it wasn’t like it hasn’t made itself known to me the whole time, it had.  I just had so many meager ways of pressing itself down, whether it be a bag of good popcorn at the theater or lunch at the finest buffet restaurant.  It was my way of recovery, but why did it feel even worse than before?

You were the first person I’d notify of how I’m feeling, despite you claiming that you’re a person who does not at all feel in general.  You told me that one time, during one of our many meals as I showered upon you what I felt over and over again: I care for you, I love you.  You asked me sometimes if I meant it, if I meant the words that I said.  And you know me, I always did, I always do, I always will. You’d counter with a joke instead, a snide remark, but you always make me laugh nevertheless.  It was your talent, a talent I so admired and tried to attain. You may have been closed off to others, but to me you always found the chance to open up: your irks, your chance encounters with happiness, your problems.  You gave me your share of generosity, occasion or no occasion. You shared with me pieces of advice my parents would have said.  I could never deny that, even push that aside.

But as I reached for my phone again, fiddling with the passcode as I debated, I dropped it in my bag.  How do I tell you about you?

We lasted longer, you and me.  Twice of four years in the making.  We found common ground through songs emanating as loud as the maximum volume could give, until it was you alone again enjoying that same genre, and I left for new ones.  You shared less of yourself, that I knew.  Maybe it was because you were so guarded, and it gave me such a hard time to break through that wall that you put up.  But at one point, I was in the lowest of lows, and you gave me the cold, hard truth: What are you doing with your life? How could you do such a thing? Remember how it would feel like if you were the one involved.  And you always told me never to cry over a boy.  But I did anyway, and you were still there to tell me to guard myself more, to never rush into any decision based on pure emotion.  You shared with me your dreams, your ambitions, your insecurities– things I will hold on to dear life, secrets people have to pry from me.  I may blurt things here and there, but I have kept everything you have told me from the world.  Even if I see everything in soft pastel, I know that behind every color was once rooted in the absence of it, a darkness.

Never mind, I’ll find
someone l
ike you

She crooned the wrong words, I thought to myself as I shuffled in between racks.  You’d both think I forgot, that I channeled, prioritized my own hurt over everything else we shared, whether it be separately or in unison.  But no, every little thing is now a memory, and you are all in everything I see, everything I hear.  I never knew that even love songs made so much sense, attached themselves even more than to be coupled with feelings of attraction for a boy.  Maybe because what I have given will never run dry, even if my romantic feelings for boys would.  That this even hurt more than any rejection I’ll ever get.  That I could never find myself without dry eyes every day.

I wish you knew that, as I once knew you.


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