the truth is that i miss you
i probably always will
i’ll probably always grieve the loss of the friendship i thought we had.
we could split the world in half and sit on opposite sides
i wouldn’t mind.
i’d never need to touch you.
i’d barely even want to.
i’d survive.
as long as we could exchange words.
ideas.
thoughts.
new chapters.
but you have french people for that
i understand
you disappeared from social media
i’m sure that was a good plan.
focus on your girlfriend
maybe one day make her your wife
forget about me
and your little catastrophic impact on my life
sorry
i’m being bitter, aren’t i?
i don’t mean it.
i was bitter when i posted poetry to my stories
knowing that you’d see it
but now i’m a still lake.
because you’re no longer throwing stones at me.
you stopped doing that a while ago.
there’s no more splashing
did we drown?
i miss my friend.
the problem is that he wasn’t real.
you weren’t.
no, you were not.
you thought you could be.
i know that.
maybe you even wanted to be.
i can’t change that.
all i know is that saturday mornings were ours for a while there.
you stayed up late so we could talk.
and i miss the pictures you’d send me of france every time you went out on a walk.
i wrote a book, and in it there’s a chapter that i think is better because of you.
because you read it.
that’s what i miss.
that’s what i wanted.
not a boyfriend, but a writing group.
no tall poppies, but a friendship with another writer.
do they have that syndrome in france?
i don’t think you do.
you leave too much else to chance.
i craved it my whole life, tasted it for a moment,
and then became doomed to always regret it.
i can’t forget it.
i can’t forget you.
but you have a discord server full of people like me
who could do the things i used to do.
you were only on instagram for me, i know.
i’ve had that effect on people before.
you’re not a bookstagrammer, though.
you’re a talented writer and a whore.
wow, sorry. it rhymed.
i’m out of practice.
look at the state of my mind.
healing.
doing the best my heart can do.
they say that’s what happens with time.
i don’t want you back now. i can’t have you.
our friendship wouldn’t be the same.
even if you never said “i love you” to me in our lives again.
it’s a ghost now.
“i’m polyamorous”
“hey, i respect that. i’ve explored it too.”
“fall in love with me?”
“is there someone in france?”
“yes, do you have someone too?”
“they don’t know”
“no”
“yes. better not then.”
“friends, then.”
“friends sounds great. what are you working on?”
“book two”
“me too”
we couldn’t behave like sensible people, though, could we?
we were idiots
idiots in love with speaking another language
addicted to the stress
devoted to the plot
i don’t think we were in love with each other.
but i think we loved love. i think we had fun.
i think we could have been friends forever.
maybe not.
maybe you don’t miss me.
maybe you liked my body more than my mind.
that’s fine.
i get the feeling you don’t think about either part of me anymore.
like i said before.
you’re on discord now. and you’re back to speaking french.
i’m still on instagram. i’ll probably never leave.
i have trouble getting out of my comfort zone. you helped me with that.
but i’m fine.
i do hope you’re happy.
i hope she is, too.
maybe you do still care, somewhere deep down.
maybe all of this is because of you.
what a mess we almost made of our lives, our careers, and our souls.
not your typical writing group, was it? no.
not your typical partners in critique.
we both wrote fantasy books, then started a romance,
and now we don’t speak.
i hope you never read this. i hope we both leave well enough alone.
i might tell myself that you miss me sometimes.
and you?
i guess you’ll always know.
