I can’t remember the last time we talked. Years, at least. Even longer since we’ve seen each other.
It’s funny, but I can’t remember what exactly happened. I don’t know where I went wrong, or what I did to you. Honestly, with all the time that’s past, I’m don’t remember much of anything.
But I remember your feel. I remember how the words you said and wove together and wrapped around me. The good, the bad, the unbearable. Our interactions molded me to who I am today. I’m forever indebted to you. And cursing you.
Looking back on those vague memories, I see why we fell apart. How our lives were tearing apart in too many different directions, our conversations becoming too formal and distant. We weren’t we anymore.
Though I wonder if I found you now, if I could tug on your shirt and pull you back to me, that maybe now all our tears are in the right places. If all our cracked imperfections would form supports for each other, instead of weaknesses.
More than anything, I want to know you’re still there. That the person who created the foundation of my life still exists in this world, that those faint memories have reason to be one of the realest things in my life. I want to know you’re okay.
But I have reached out. I have run and searched in all the nooks and crannies you once existed, all the names and personalities I knew you by.
Perhaps it’s not that our fractures fit each more with the passage of time, perhaps the wear and tear of life have made us incompatible. Maybe the edges of me that wait patiently for you don’t even exist in your soul. It would make sense, after so long. People change.
And yet I wait. I still keep my eyes out for your profile, my ears straining for your words. I move forward, but I leave my breadcrumbs to you, praying that you one day chase me like I’ve tried to chase you.
My hand is outstretched.
Please. Take it.