I looked for what you gave me in the warmth that comes from reading books by my favorite tween fiction author, in being a part of a crowd screaming to the tunes of a popstar I grew up with – watching her perform a several hundred feet away from me, in the adrenaline rush that comes from a hike, in the liberation that comes from unplugging from social-media and making peace with complete and total silence (ignoring the waves of fomo-ridden anxiety until it is no more) and in the welcome in-betweenness of vacations. And yet, the warmth, the rush, and the striving toward balance was nothing compared to the readiness with which I was able to open up to you, and accept all of you.
I remember forcibly discussing loss with you one random evening, and you saying, with exasperation so that I’d drop the topic, that you had never really felt loss. I envy you for that, as nothing has resounds in me so loudly, so painfully, as your absence. It is not just a void. A void is what I feel post break-up with someone or the other who grew into my routine, towards whom I’d feel phantom-urges to text message until it would go away and I’d realize being alone gave me more space towards my priorities anyway. Your absence is realizing that what I’d mistook as “alone” for a year and a half, the “alone” that felt so right, so right I assumed I was destined to be alone forever, was the me that was immersed in your silent, supportive taken-for-granted company. I wish I could stay appreciative of the vividness of those moments with you and the easy acknowledgement of our unlabeled dynamic, without clinging onto them. Then maybe, I’d realize that in many ways, you’re still with me – affection, and consideration that open and that far-reaching can’t really leave, can it?