if i leave a voicemail

on letting go of a long-term friendship

I have a mini suitcase stuffed with: every postcard I’ve ever been sent, every piece of paper I’ve ever written a poem on, wrinkled old paper doilies my mom used to keep, my childhood Polly Pocket collection and a birthday card my Aunt once drew for me.

These are things I will never throw away. They have brought me happiness at different scenes in my life, represent amazing memories and feelings of delight.

And yet, no matter how hard I wish it would, the same sentiment doesn’t hold true for people. I can’t tuck them away in a safe vault encasing the ornaments of my life no matter how hard I try. 

I will never discard my first pair of sneakers still buried in the back of my closet, but I have already discarded a person that saved my life. That shouldn’t make sense, and I would trade the places of those two in a heartbeat. Relationships cannot be locked away and preserved in time like material objects; they require continuous care or else they disintegrate.

I listen to a song by that artist we used to obsess over together and it hurts because each beat brings me back to you. I dig through my closet to throw away old trinkets and treasures and I come across the pair of pink New Balances I wore when we danced hand-in-hand at the edge of the stream. Everything is tinted with you, too many moments and memories stained by your laughter that I won’t hear in real time ever again.

I went to a Conan Gray concert last week. He talked about his song, Astronomy, which I’m all too familiar with; I’ve spent countless walks listening to it and wondering if you’ve come across this song too. If you think about me when you hear it the way I think about you.

At the concert, Conan said he wrote the song after having a terrible dream in which his best friend abandoned him. The pain he felt in that dream inspired him to write about the hypothetical event of cutting ties with the person closest to him.

stop trying to keep us alive

you’re pointing at stars in the sky, that already died

It’s comical, almost. A song he wrote about a situation so painful that it could only be a nightmare, perfectly mirrors everything that happened to us in reality.

stop trying to keep us alive

you can’t force the stars to align

when they’ve already died

It stings more to remember that I was a significant driving force in our rift. Even if I didn’t break us entirely, I lifted my ax to contribute a cleaving. I’ve caused enough destruction and I wonder if the only thing that would damage you more is an attempt to make amends. Trying to re-enter your life ... I've thought about it day after day: waiting by your door in hopes you’d unlock it, at least leave the tiniest sliver ajar so I can weave my way through. But will it only rip you apart more to see me again? Is my face enough to rub salt in the wound; am I your cut that always bleeds?

Maybe you are at peace and my re-entry would only be a disturbance. Maybe you do not think of me at all while I lie mourning at midnight, digging through memories of you lodged deep in my mind. You are still engraved on me and I might be nothing to you and I can’t tell if that’s poetic or pathetic.

Two years ago, part of me lived only for you. Did you know that? Did you know that, at the lowest moments of my existence, at the darkest rock bottom below the precipice, in the most suffocating prison of pain I ever pushed through, you were my guiding torch? The light at the end, the last shining star alive. Our conversations gave me warmth when I was shivering and each of your quirks and traits brought me more delight than you’ll ever know.

I have healed. I no longer have to rely on anyone for stability or strength; I find that within myself. I don’t miss the dependency but I miss you. I miss looking forward to our calls. I miss scrolling through my phone and laughing mindlessly in the middle of a coffee shop because you texted me another stupid pun.

Why did healing have to mean closing our chapter? Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I went about it all the wrong way. I associated those years of my life with hurting and I couldn’t pinpoint what was causing the harm so I tried to run from everything that surrounded me. I am sorry that included you.

I am sorry that I am still learning friendships and relationships and love and selflessness even two decades into my life. I am sifting through what I thought was right and what I know is wrong, reordering and reflecting and hoping it grows into something gorgeous. 

I may not hear your voice again but I will zip the memory of our movie nights away in my pocket and hold it close when I need a light again. You are the best thing I have known and the best thing I have lost.