To a lost love.

It’s been three years today, since you’ve been gone. Yet, your absence masquerades as a tangible presence, both forms inexplicably intertwined. I wonder if you know that I am here now, where it started.

Day before, I passed the exact location where I first met you and I felt my heart break. Clichéd, I know. I would have made a face had you ever said something like this to me back then. But there is truth to it. It’s called heart-break because the heart really does break. It cracks and it shatters and no one else but you feel it. A flood of memories came rushing back, memories that I couldn’t contain on my own, and I prayed for you, for you to be here.

I no longer remember your face clearly. The only photograph I have of you is that hazy one of you on the pier. I can hardly make out your outline, but your smile is still visible. I miss that ridiculously infectious smile. I no longer remember your voice. But I still remember your laugh. And it always makes me cry.

Do you remember, it was you who got me to start a blog? I remember how you guided me through the entire process over a phone call. I remember your calm when I fought with you for no reason at all. I remember how you haughtily dismissed all the ‘crushes’ I ever had as a mere distraction. I remember how you flew down from a different city, just to say hi. I remember dismissing the act, so offhandedly.

I like to believe that in a sky beyond this one, you are alive somewhere. And somehow, if the talking in my head hasn’t reached you, this letter would. I wish you’d forgive me, even though I don’t deserve it. Maybe that’s why I’ve been unable to let you go. Maybe I don’t deserve that kind of relief. What goes around, comes around. Right?

The logical part of me is already giving me a hard time for these words and the intention behind these words. But I remember, you told me once, that one only writes that which one has a hard time saying out loud. I write this because I don’t have you to say this out loud to. I promise myself everyday that I won’t write about you. I break that promise every night.

I don’t know how to end this letter. It is incomplete and the attempt is futile. I just hope you are in a good place where it is peaceful. I hope your anecdotes and wisecracks still make an audience grin uncontrollably. I hope you’re alive somewhere, in a parallel universe. I hope I’m there with you.

All I do is hope.


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