Unwritten Letters

Hey, I know we haven’t been talking in a long time. But I have heard you have been up to new, interesting things. You’ve been travelling a lot and drinking a lot and dancing a lot and smiling a lot. It’s a small town, everyone knows everything. People mention you in their conversations while I sip on my whiskey, pretending to be sunk in my own reverie. Sometimes they say shit about you that I know isn’t true, it is no more my position to defend you.

“Hey, you are friends with him, aren’t you?”
I think my entire existence just chuckled.
“Um, yeah we are.” I smile and try to sound nonchalant, but the stupid voice inside my head just laughed at the irony.

Mutual parties are cool; pretending to be strangers is easy.
You blow perfect smoke rings and crack jokes and let girls lean into you and nudge you as they fake laugh. You show reluctance when your friends pull you towards the dance floor but once you’re up there; your feet forget to stop. You’re so lost in the moment that you end up dancing right next to me and it is a few minutes before you realize it and slowly make your way to extreme end of the floor, as if standing next to me will be the death of you.

I think I imagined it but did you just look at me with guilty eyes?
Why would you? It’s been 8 months; I shake the thought out of my system and pretend to be interested in whatever crap my friends are talking.

It’s hard to not think about the could have beens, the what ifs and you and us. I still feel like hitting you up when our favourite artist drops a new single, I miss our long drives, rapping incorrect lyrics at the top of our voice, laughing like idiots and exchanging playlists. I keep reading our texts and still laugh over them as if you have just sent them to me. I keep listening to your voice messages where you keep saying my name like a prayer. I listen to music that you listen to and watch TV shows that you watch and visit places that you visit, just to feel the non-existent association.

Shit, I am dumb.
No, I don’t I miss you.
I drive past your house at times; it’s almost like visiting an old place for the first time. It doesn’t feel right anymore.

It’s like our favorite song – with different lyrics.
But, it’s okay; I’ll still hear about your amazing, amazing life at parties. I will be happy for you, but I’d still wish that you get drunk and hate yourself and play my playlist on repeat while you cry your eyes off and send me a desperate message asking me to come back, because I know I will - in the blink of an eye.

But hey, like I said, its okay, I’ll still talk to you through disconnected calls and backspaced messages.