Two years. I return from my social media hiatus and my prying eyes lock with her beaming smile. My eyes don’t waver. A few seconds pass and I allow them to shift one millimeter to the left. You’ve never appeared so at ease. It radiates from you — seeps through the screen.
Your friends reached out and I didn’t ask about you. I am paralyzed by my pride. I tell myself apologizing now would be selfish. Would you like to hear from me? Do you think about me, too?
I wonder if you’ve read the vintage copy I lent you. The stoic expression on the cover reminds me of the first time I met you. Is it lying in your room? Have you disposed of it? I suppose it’s no longer mine.
Years ago, you asked to talk to me behind the beige buildings adjacent to the softball field. I didn’t show. We didn’t speak afterward. That was the first time.
This summer, I read the blue children’s book you bought me for my birthday. You couldn’t have picked a more appropriate and palatable work on existentialism. I laughed. I cried. It wasn’t sad.
Before I landed, I wrote you a letter. An 11-hour flight was all it took to finally pour out two years of regret, denial, and quiet adoration onto paper. The paper won’t reach you. I hope my reasoning at least does.