Yes, we’re acquaintances. That isn’t even a query. It’s impossible to imagine how much we’ve been through together. We had more faith in each other than anybody else, including our own family members. And you’re still the first person I’d contact if there was a funeral, a fire, or a psychological breakdown, whether it was my own or someone else’s. Even if you’re probably not, I’d want to call you first. That instinct hasn’t left me yet.
True, our split was not like any other. It was exceptionally terrible and dreadful because we truly felt we were IT for each other, and realising we weren’t split us in half like a film cut, but it’s all right now. We had our run, which was mostly enjoyable, and now we’re going our own ways. I’m delighted for you that you found someone else. But I’m still not prepared to meet you since I know it’ll be difficult.
It’ll be difficult because I don’t recall you being with me. Outside of myself, I have no idea who you are. You’ve only ever kissed my fingers and put your lips near to my ear when you’ve been mine. Watching you do these things to someone else would feel like a strange re-enactment of my own history, except with someone else cast as me, and I’ll be stuck in my chair, puzzled and misplaced.
It’ll be difficult because, even if I don’t miss you, I still do. But I’m not sure why; I’ve asked myself, and I don’t want you back. I’m not missing your strange neuroses, intransigence, or chain smoking. I despised the fact that you refused to quit smoking on purpose, but it doesn’t matter anymore because I won’t be single when you pass away. I’m sure you still don’t believe you’ll develop cancer. I miss your strange convictions and the way you used to believe you were unstoppable.
It’ll be difficult since it’s been so long; we’ll be like phantoms of our old selves, attempting miserably to embody them. We’ll attempt to make each other feel better, but it’ll be like painting a bigger line over the messed-up small line, resulting in a hazy black blob. We’ll get drunk the way we used to, but not because we want to, but because that’s how we remember it. You’ll give me a broad overview of your life, and I’ll nod as if I know what you do for a living, but I won’t. A lot of things will be lost on me.
It’ll be difficult because, no matter how good he is, I won’t be able to pretend to like him. No, I’ll most likely drink too much and say something hurtful, or drink too much and lose track of time. I’ll be curious as to what makes him so special, and why you decided to name him “baby” and force me to sleep on the sofa. I’ll pretend he doesn’t know you as well as I do, but the truth is that I don’t know you and haven’t for a long time, though I’ll certainly disregard this.
I’m going to take a seat across the table and watch you weave your fingers through his, chew the same crust of bread for five minutes, sip my martini, and try not to grin. I’m going to assume you can’t say “I love you” and mean it because you’ve already said it to me so many times and meant it, and now you don’t, so find a new phrase or keep your mouth shut. This will make me feel irrational, and I’ll find a reason to go home early.
You love me differently than I love you, and people change and move on and blah blah, but why is it that distant love is the most difficult to deal with? What are people’s reactions to this? Do they have any?
Next blog will be out soon.
Desai Thoughts MEdia.
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