A Letter to a Friend
photo by jayla jones
A Letter to a Friend
third-year anna van eekeren
I. I think about you all the time. Perhaps that’s unhealthy, but I can’t help it.
II. We’re soaring down the highway, blasting music and chasing tomorrow, wind roaring in our faces, voices fading into oblivion. A glistening canopy above us, an endless road of possibility.
III. Yelling at our parents who just don’t understand, rolling our eyes, eager to find new lands. Talking about the future like we have a clue, the places we’ll explore, the people we’ll meet, the stuff we’ll do once we’re out and free from this suffocating society.
IV. Laughing in busy streets, a photoshoot in the east, capture these ephemeral moments of blissful feat. Dancing in pouring rain and sneaking drinks and candy and games again. Watching movies and putting on face masks, cradling pets and attempting cultural cooking tasks. Concerts in eclipse hours, illuminated spectrums of dazzling power. Shopping hours on end, thrifting and making random TikToks to the latest trend. Bubble tea and walks in the park, days spent together swirling to dark.
V. It all seemed so real, so tangible, but now, we sit in heavy silence. Tense drives and hidden minds and bitter longings left behind.
VI. I try to reach out but it’s futile. You greet me with strained smiles and darting eyes that fail to mask your fallen guise. I ask questions. I send articles and videos and posts and TikToks. I talk. No response. You’re avoiding me, self-isolating, pushing me away. I’m left searching, grasping for something, anything, some remnant of a time forgotten, some connection that lets me know we’re still here. That we’ll be okay. But you’re gone, slipping through my fingers like morning mist, disappearing faster than I can process –
VII. Where are you? Who are you? I feel as if I’m facing a stranger. How did we go from midnight whispers to 0 cherished pictures? I don’t know anything about you anymore. You don’t tell me anything or ask me about myself. I’m screaming and pulling out my hair, tears streaking down as I crumble into despair. I look up but you’re not there. It’s just empty corridors and blank drawers and static air filled with distant memories that run bare.
VIII. Where is us? We haven’t been us since that night. It gnaws at the depths of my core, scratching, clawing to the surface. ‘A friend of shattered stars and bleeding scars’ is what I called you. But I forgave you. Because you too were blinking in broken beats, of a pain and past buried so deep. My friend, that which you seek, you won’t find elsewhere, only in yourself so to speak.
IX. I know you’re struggling. I know you’re hurt by things that are traumatic and unfair and emotions too strong to care. I wish I could help. I wish I could do more. I miss you, more than I can express. It’s hard for me to see you like this. If I could take it all away I would in a heartbeat. But this is beyond me. I’ve done all I can. My friend, please see someone who can help better than.
X. I see you. In painted dreams and blurred scenes, in flashing ties and neon skies, in traces buzzed and shadows underground, there I was, in perfect places we’ve found.
XI. I love you. I always have.