09 March 2011

A Letter That Will Likely Remain Unread

Dear Stargazer,

First and foremost, I know you’ll either never read this, or if you do, it won’t be for months after I’ve written it. As you’ve told me upon more than one occasion, you hardly have any time to spend with me, let alone keep track of my blog entries. As far as I know, you still haven’t read the ones from December and earlier that apply, at least in part, to you. After all, you were the primary inspiration behind my (still) most popular post. Nevertheless, I’ll likely be long gone by the time your eyes cross this entry, if ever they do. I’ll have long since walked out of your life and into my own, moving on to Missouri and then Texas and then after that, wherever the wind takes me. Thus, I am writing this more for myself than for you, although if you do find yourself reading this one day, I would like to know, no matter how far in the distant future it is or how long it’s been since we last spoke. I don’t want my words to disappear into the cold, meaningless void of internet ramblings that no one really reads or remembers. Whatever happens, I hope that my words do eventually find their way to you.

I will miss so much about you after I leave, but more than anything else, I’ll miss our friendship. We rarely speak now as it is, although you assure me everything is fine. I remember when I first met you at breakfast. Immediately your bright smile, your happy glow, caught my attention. Wherever you were, you lit up the whole room. Of course I was drawn to you. Of course I started talking to you. Of course I fell for you; how could I not? You were, and still are, so sweet and caring and dedicated and disciplined and kind and smart and funny and all of the other thousand qualities I admire in a soul. I don’t think you truly understand how amazing of an individual you are. We may have only met this past August, but from the very beginning we became close despite your insistence that you simply don’t let people in. We talked to each other nonstop: joking, laughing, wondering what we’d do if we found out the world was ending and there was no way we could stop it and no one would believe us.

I still remember your answer to that question. It was so sweet, it almost made me cry. Do you remember mine?

I’ve gathered so many fond memories of times spent with you, that when I look back on this year, I know I’ll smile. The good far outweigh the bad, and I wouldn’t trade any of the accompanying pain for the numbness that filled me before I knew you. You taught me how to feel again. I don’t think you ever knew that part, how empty I had become before I started talking to you. I remember the first time you left for the weekend to watch your sister get married, and you texted me that you missed me. The time we stayed up until three in the morning just talking about nothing and everything, until suddenly you laced your fingers through mine and marveled that such delicate hands could paint so many beautiful things. I think I melted, right then and there. The time we were sitting on the roof in the middle of the night, tracing the constellations and shivering in the cold despite our winter coats. That night is why I will always think of you as my Stargazer. The time I left for my cousin’s wedding, and you told me, “I wish you were here,” and when I replied that the weekend would be over soon, you added, “Not soon enough.” The million times we’ve kissed. Could you tell how badly I wanted each to never end?

We have 72 days left, and then I’m gone. I legitimately might never see you again. I know there’s a chance that you might post where I am, but by then I will likely already be deployed. The chances after that are slim to none. We want similar life paths, but that in itself is enough to send us in completely different directions. There’s an entire world out there for us to get lost in and stay separated. I would love for you to wander back into my life in a few years, when you’re ready for more than friends who like to cuddle, but I know how small of a probability that is. We live so near each other already and still barely converse, so how likely is it, really, that you’ll talk to me after I graduate or come visit me in Texas? Never mind the fact that I’ll be living only a few hours from your hometown, and that for the rest of our lives, you’ll have an open invitation to crash at my place. Even if you’re just passing through for a night, and I’m not even home. Even if we haven’t spoken in years but by some miracle, you kept my number.

I do hope we keep in contact and see each other now and then. I want to remain a part of your life, however geographically distant we may become. I enjoy talking to you far too much to let you get away with silence for long, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Until we part, however, I hope we can make the most of the days (and nights) we have remaining to us. There are plenty of more good memories we can create to drown out the lingering bad taste of a few fights. Let’s get on with that, shall we? I’m not ready yet to let you go.

And still, you don’t let me in anymore. There’s so much I’ve been wanting to tell you, about where my life is headed, about what I’ve been doing lately, about who I really am inside. I never got the chance, and now it seems almost too late. I wish you would let me in again, let me talk to you like we did last semester. You don’t tell me what’s bothering you, although I can see there’s a sadness brewing behind your eyes, some heaviness hiding there and dimming, however slightly, your otherwise bright smile. I want to wrap my arms around you and make you as happy as you were when we first met, to heal you the way you—without even realizing it—healed me. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’m going to try.

When you want to, you’ll know where to find me.


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