Dear friend,
When everybody else goes to bed and the only sound I hear is the clacking of keyboard keys, I start to miss you. The unfamiliar feeling sets in, taking me by surprise. My mind starts to scream, but the heart always wins. Here are my words. I am blowing them out to the wind in hopes that they reach you, a couple of thousand miles away from where I am. I hope they nudge you on the shoulder, and give you a gentle bump on your knee. Here.
When I think of you, I hear a chorus of maybes. I see a door of possibilities. Maybe a chance. Maybe the right moment. Maybe a kiss. Maybe another mistake. Maybe hesitation. Maybe disappointment. Maybe getting to ride in the passenger seat when you get your first car. Maybe more late night text messages. Or maybe a f a l l i n g out.
Maybe I will bump into you in the grocery store after several years of silence when I'm twenty-three and you're twenty-five. You give me a hug and with a huge smile you say, "I'm getting married!" You tell me she's the one and I hide a smile because this is what you've told me about every girlfriend you'd had back in high school.
Maybe you invite me for lunch and I meet this strange girl you are marrying. She is small and slender and she likes to smile a lot. She is not strange at all. I find her sweet, in fact, all though to be honest I also find her dull. You ask me what I think of her out in the hall and I restrain myself from saying "You could have done better." I tell you everything you want to hear. "I'm happy for you." And maybe I am. I am. I am. Maybe I just don't know how I'm supposed to feel.
Maybe you invite me to your wedding like you promised so many years ago (thank you for remembering) and at the reception when you've finished cutting the cake and you're about to leave with your new wife and everybody is waving and your mother is crying, I weep. You turn back and you look at me and you laugh because I look like a mess, but you hug me anyway and I sob into your shoulder (I can't help it). This is sorrow, this is joy, this is nostalgia. And before I let you go I hold you tightly like it's the last time. But of course it's not, silly.
Maybe when I'm thirty-five and married (thank you God) you will babysit my kids when I have to work late hours, and I'll lend an ear and a shoulder and a heart to your teenage daughter when she gets her heart broken for the first time. We will call each other just to say good night. And thank you. Thank you for being my friend.
This is how I picture things are going to be. You and I are linked together by an elastic chord, and no matter how much we pull or walk towards different directions, we'll always find our way back. We are friends, and that is all I really want us to be.
Seventeen and studying Psychology. I like books, coffee, lyricism, magic hour, (in)signifcant moments, free-verse poetry, mental disorders, female anatomy, pretty smiles, late night conversations, and the time it takes for two people to transcend the boundary between strangers and friends.
I keep sadness at bay by constantly falling in love with the little things in life. My name is Anna and this is where I try to write.
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