third year julia mun

Jan 15, 2020

Dear [redacted],

I’ve taken your name out not because I can’t bear the thought of you - it’s just that I can’t say your name without being overwhelmed by the vestiges of memories we share.

Today is your birthday and I’m wondering if I should say something. I keep touching my phone, drafting countless texts in my head. I don’t even know if I have the right number anymore, nor do I think you would respond - you stopped about a year ago, no matter how many messages I sent. Something in me wants to try anyway. Hey, happy birthday! Here’s to another year of silence!

I’ve tried to not dwell on this too much - everyone tells me friendships break down. Priorities change. Viewpoints shift. It’s a part of growing up. But I keep thinking I didn’t dwell on us enough. I buried our friendship like some forgotten dream. I didn’t know how to process the silence. Every time I thought about you, I would take my shovel and bury and bury.

But how do I begin to describe the sudden severing of our friendship? No matter how many times I convince myself that I can move on, the phantom of you haunts me. Do you feel the same way?

And now, I think the question I’m most afraid of asking: what happened to us? I can go through our history, I can point fingers at me, at you. I can unearth every memory I have to find an answer.

But while I was still piecing together the story, I forgot that we are far past our last chapter.

Today is a reminder that you’re still somewhere out there. I’m sure we are different people now, tempered by new experiences, and I wonder if we have the chance to cross paths again. I thought this would be an angry letter, but I have no hate or accusations. I don’t think I ever did. I think I just feel more vulnerable with you, with me. The graceless, ineloquent truth is, we aren’t friends anymore, but I’m writing this shot in the dark to tell you that I still have that love for you. I hope you know that. That’s all I can really ask for.

Always,

J

An Epilogue