Inside. (2) (Missing you.)

It was three years ago today.

Three years ago today, I wrote you a very long note and put it in your mailbox.

That night, you took it out of your pocket (how long had you been holding it?) and tapped me on the head with it.

You told me I shouldn’t have (but why wouldn’t I?).

As we left the restaurant with our two other friends, you told me something I could not believe. Not easily angered to that degree, I was furious (why would you lie to me?) and I was hurt. And you could tell.

I sat on the passengers side as you drove. Fuming and confused, I knew I couldn’t have this discussion with you in front of our friends. You grabbed my hand (why?) when I wouldn’t speak to you and I jerked away. Or I tried to. You held me fast. You refused to let go (why did you always know what I needed?) for most of the ride and I stared out the dark window. You tried to calm me down without saying a word, your thumb going back and forth across my hand, knowing we couldn’t talk about this with an audience.

When we got closer, you quietly asked if I wanted to talk. I nodded. You dropped off our friends and found a parking spot.

That was the first time in my life I had ever yelled at one of my friends and I haven’t done it again sense. I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so angry with someone and yet so comfortable with someone that I felt like I had the freedom to do so. Patiently, you listened (but why did you put up with me?) and you tried to explain yourself.

Finally, you gave a reason I accepted (but did I believe it?) and I began to calm down. When I did, you pulled the note back out. I had written so many good things about you. You never would have let me say those things to you without arguing against them; writing them down was the only way.

But you pulled it back out again and opened it and read it again. You questioned me on it. Did I really believe the things I had said?

Of course I did.

A day or two later, I saw the note sitting on your desk. You picked it up and put it in your small safe. The safe you had told me about where you keep things that no one else is allowed to see. The safe you kept important things in. Things you didn’t want to lose (what else was in there?) and things you wanted to keep.

Two months later, you spoke to me for the last time (why did our friendship fall apart? Will I ever know?).

Three years later, to the day, I sit here writing about the details as if it was yesterday.

Three years later, I still miss you terribly.

“You left pieces of your soul inside of me.” (s.l.)

Missing you.



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