you said hello to me after two years of silence. it was like a dream, i guess; on good days i know it was real, that it happened, that you saw my name in your phone and decided, oh what the hell, it’s time to say hello. on the worst of days it becomes a dream, a fleeting fantasy where i dream of you slipping quietly into my chats that one night at two am, a simple hello before we could say goodbye. on the worst of days, on the normal days, i think of it as a regret: that it happened, we talked, i met your soul and heard your thoughts, and on a later-deemed-foolish whim i decided that i could set those words aside until we talked again.
(“you know i only come here because of you.”)
sometimes i wonder if you were even real. if you had really hugged me in your tiny arms five years ago, babbling about my long hair and how you wished to bun it, how i looked like i’d woken to the tunes of death’s violin with how deep my dark circles were. i wonder if i’d really held your hands that time, looking for scars i knew you’d hide, anger and helplessness clawing wounds into my gut when i realised i didn’t know how to help. and how you looked at me — was that real? how you’d looked at me with all the hope and admiration that i didn’t deserve, told me with utmost confidentiality the secrets you wouldn’t dare to breathe to anyone else? you’re the first person to know about this, and it’s a sick twist of flattery and guilt that i didn’t know how to manage at fifteen, an arm slung around your shoulders as i tried to be the person you thought me to be. i trust you, i trust you, i trust you,
even when i’d failed you.
(“i told myself that if you didn’t reply in five minutes, it was a sign to do it. but then you did, and to be honest i still feel like i should, but for you, i won’t.”)
you said hello to me after two years of silence. you’d changed, i’d changed. you were quieter, more mellowed down from the raging, untameable whirlpool that youth put the best of us through. you were a wave, now feisty with a purpose, stopping by my name to say hello. is that you? you’d asked when i was seconds away from sleep, and on good days i felt that i’d woken up and replied; and on the worst of days the hello was the start of my dream.
it felt like we were in school again, laughing about our lives and what those foolish enough to stick by us were doing. you let me know about your friends. i told you about mine. in that hour you told me i miss you twice — i still wonder if it’s a mistake that i’d only replied that once. i could you hear you giggling, could hear the roll of your eyes when you said i’d never change. and it’s a regret now that i don’t remember the rest of the conversation, only how it ended, because i didn’t think to commit to memory what i would later know as the last time i crossed roads with your soul.
you know what, you said, it’s almost 3am.
it was great talking to you,
but i’m going to sleep now.
you slept before I could say goodnight, and again before i could say goodbye.