I looked for what you gave me in the warmth that comes from reading tween fiction, in the heated group flow of a pop concert, in the adrenaline rush of an afternoon hike, in the stillness of a forced detox from social-media (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, that you had never really felt loss. I envy you for that, as nothing has resounded in me as loudly, and as 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 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 vivid ease of those moments with you 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?