I may have started writing more than five times for the past two days, writing one sentence and choking up with tears, and closing the laptop. I tried to write in Arabic, to feel closer to you, even tolerated the idea of expressing my feelings in spoken Arabic, and I wrote incomplete sentences that I now cannot even read.
How are you? You seem distant, more than the miles between us; I just can’t feel you beside me anymore, the closeness you have always accustomed me to, even when you were not beside me, you were always here. You are not anymore; you don’t really want to. And I am trying so hard to understand.
You haven’t asked how I am doing, but I will tell you anyways.
Everything hurts. Every bone in me is aching. My heart, the most. My heart is clenching with every thought of you, and the worst part is that all I can think of is you. The shortness of breath, the walls closing down, the unbearable chest pain, they are all here. I even searched to make sure I am not hallucinating, why the heart out of all organs hurts when we are emotionally hurt, and if it actually does, and it does. The heart actually hurts when we are heartbroken.
Everything in me is hurting, and everything around me is hurting me. How can it not, when everything reminds me of you? I sit on my couch in my living room, and I am reminded of three weeks ago when you were seated exactly here and told our friend smiling: “since we are at her house, let us officially ask her father for her hand.” As a feminist in the making, I do not usually appreciate these jokes, but I hated my ugly heart for almost skipping a beat.
I listen to this song my best friend gave me, and I am reminded of your friend’s house as I sat on a hammock and listened to you tell me you were thinking of making a band with your guitarist friend.
Nights remind me of you because of all the sleepless nights we spent talking, laughing them away, me taking you for granted. Snoring reminds me of all the voice messages you sent me of your friend. “We should start an orchestra,” you joked. Pasta reminds me of you because it is probably the only food you know how to make. Music reminds me of you, of your voice singing, of you playing your musical instruments and closing your eyes as if you are actually feeling every word you sing. Coffee reminds me of you because if there is anything I am certain of, I, as well as anything in the world, could never compete with how much you love your black coffee. Sleep reminds me of you, you who sleeps at dawn and wakes up three days later, still feeling sleepy.
Insecurity reminds me of you, for all the arguments we had because you doubted how I felt towards you. Jealousy reminds me of you, for all the guys I told you about, and you would either stop replying to me or stay quiet and light a cigarette. Pretty girls remind me of you because of how frustrated I feel from the idea of you meeting any of them. Sweaters remind me of you because of how wholesome and warm yours look on you. My car reminds me of you because all I could hear is your voice singing along to the songs on the car radio. My friends remind me of you because you are a part of all of them, even the ones you don’t know, know of you.
Everything is, one way or another, reminding me of you, I have known you for three years, and you have been the most significant part of my life for over a year, despite me pushing otherwise most of that time. I have been reading back our chats the past two days, hoping to keep you alive in me as long as I can, and I cannot begin to explain how stupid and reckless I have been when all you have been so loving and sincere. I avoided you for days, replied hours after you’ve poured your heart out to me, ignored your sweet talk, refused to slow dance with you. I forgot so many important things you told me. I rejected you, not once, but twice.
I am sorry. I am so so so sorry. I’ve been wanting to tell you everything since summer; I wanted to explain myself and be as honest as I could ever be; I wanted to tell you all what I had left to say despite our friends fighting me not to. I wanted to be brave enough for you, but you refused to listen. I begged you to let me talk, but you were too blinded by your own perceptions that you would not allow me to say anything. And just like that, my very thin bravery was gone to the wind.
The most painful thing is that nine months have passed since you mustered the courage to tell me you were in love with me, nine long months that could easily make you fall out of love, and this is what kills me the most. That I am stuck here on a memory of you while you most probably outgrew me a long time ago.
I could feel it; I could feel how unimportant I am to you right now. I am no longer part of your routine, of your good morning texts, of your nightly talks, of your here-and-now thoughts. I pushed you away when all I wanted of you was to stay here, and now you are out there thinking of so many people that I am probably none of, and I am sitting here in my misery thinking of you.
I need to tell you everything. I need to; I need to. I am just not sure what will be most painful, though, to pour my heart out for you only for you to confirm my theory that you have long moved on, or to keep everything in me and live off theories and nonrealistic scenarios that only exist in my heart. I have never been rejected before, and I am not sure I can survive it now, but I would certainly prefer closure to uncertainty.
I know one thing, you gave me purpose.
This may be the last thing I will write for so long, whether to you or anybody, and it is ironic because my writings for you are literally the only posts that everybody knows who I am talking about, except you. Maybe one day, you will read these and understand on your own. Maybe soon enough, you will be mortified of the world I have built for us here that you never knew existed.
At this point, I just wish I could die. I do want to move on; I do not want to overcome all the wonderfulness you have given me; I do not want to imagine a tomorrow without you. I want to be stuck here, with all this and watch my life come to an end. The hardest part about you being gone is not that I do not get to see you or talk to you; it is that I do not get to feel you again.
And you gave me purpose.