I wonder if you’re doing well. If you think about me whenever you pick up a pack of Skittles and find yourself habitually picking out the red ones because those were my favorites. Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about how much fun we had doing things that I don’t even remember what we were doing, but I know we had endless laughter. Things were so much easier back then. Even if our judgments were cloudy and we were afraid of making certain decisions because of the consequences that could follow, we felt like we could conquer the whole world and that nothing could topple us down from where we were flying. Time to time, we’d falter and fall, but then immediately laugh and dust off our shoulders. We’d get right back up and pick up were we left off.

      I’ve been really missing those inimitable feelings of learning and growing together because those moments were the most pure… Now, it’s - it’s a different kind of learning. I truly believe that everything happens for a reason and that the people in our lives are meant to be where they are. We are meant to be where we are… But that still doesn’t change the fact that my heart can’t seem to get rid of this terrible aching. Maybe that’s why I’ve stopped eating Skittles.

     Do you ever just come to a sudden epiphany where you realize that certain friendships were just never meant to work out and that some people are inherently selfish? You can’t keep loving people if they’re toxic and it sucks - it really shatters my heart to pieces.

     I could have sworn that I jolted awake, sweating and scratch covered, to the rippling and ruffling of frightened birds, holding onto their soft robes of pale feathers, but in all actuality it was the swaying and squealing of the tree limbs holding onto their swishing, wind barraged leaves.

     Even trees must learn how to let go, die and resurrect.

        I watched you sleeping and thought to myself, “What if I outgrew you?”

     I try to disappear into the folds of my mind on rainy days like today, where unhappiness and distaste towards the present situation of my life attempts to invade me, overtake me. I close my eyes, envision, and pretend that I am taking the next train to some rundown, unnamed city or town, without worrying that my anxiety might try to kill me, constantly keeping track of my breathing to try to quiet the violent stirrings in my heart. I reach one of the stops, after indecisively skipping multiple ones to catch some confidence, clumsily grasping for my embarrassingly small sized bravery, to what seems to be a pleasant place to arrive at. Sometimes my body freezes up and I can’t make up my mind as to what to do, so I’ll be stuck for a longer period of time than I really should, in the same position, with my thoughts pounding away. To my far left, I see a wooden sign showing signs of age, with thick off-white, cursive letters that reads “Walnut Tree.” Perfect.

     I nervously seat myself at the rather empty bar, after walking some ways from the train tracks, and find myself a little more relaxed seeing how humble and cozy this place is. I tune into the light jazz music playing in the background, gulp down my erratic fears of being kidnapped or murdered or lost, and I order a gin and tonic to ease the rest of the high-strung tension in my body.

     There’s a kind looking man a seat away, very easy on the eyes. He wears a fitted suit in a deep navy with a crisp, white dress shirt; no tie. Next to him is his black leather wallet and a stainless steel watch with a shining, sapphire face resting on top of it. He has dark chestnut colored hair that is near identical to his eyes and slender piano fingers that mindlessly fiddles around with his glass of whiskey.

     After mustering up the courage to figure out who he is, it turns out that he came here to escape from everybody who was congratulating him after his successful recital. He says things very concisely, but meaningfully, and has a quiet voice that really forces you to focus on his every word and breath. I don’t press him for more details as to why he would ever want to escape being praised for doing something so well, but I carefully hold back. Instead, I sip on my cold drink and clink around the cubes of ice to fill the silence. It must be nice to be talented and accomplished, to be able to perform in front of so many people, and to have a cathartic effect on people. 

    We end up getting into a heated debate about who plays Chopin’s Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op 23 better: Horowitz or Rubinstein. An hour slips by easily, almost effortlessly. Something sparks a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before and he hesitantly glances down at my empty glass.

    “Would you like another drink?”

     I open my eyes and everything vanishes. I’m back to staring at the pale grey floor and the four white walls of my tiny room. I could still hear the distant jazz music.

     I think I have been terribly sad lately.

   I remember waking up to the scent of your body lingering against the satin bedsheets while the smell of warm, roasted coffee and the bare makings of breakfast wafted out from your kitchen. Back then, we used to argue over which philosopher had it right (about God) and which theories seemed the most cogent, while hurriedly passing the syrup to each other, to drench over your esteemed blueberry pancakes that you prided yourself on. You’d brush back your dark and slightly curly hair with excited hands, drawing out your emotions in the air with zest and passion. Most of the time I would find myself listening to the sound of your rich, smooth voice almost lecturing me, and I’d marvel at how lucky your students must be to see you like this for hours almost every single day. And then I’d smirk and drift off momentarily at the fact that you never missed a morning where there weren’t fresh strawberries on the table for me, perfectly unstemmed and clean. I never liked pancakes or waffles, and I don’t know if it’s because I was so terribly enthralled by you or that you were actually an amazing chef, but I loved them.

   It’s been years since we’ve last spoken - only an occasional thumbs up on Facebook here and there, but never any of those powerfully real and animated conversations again. Never again with those smoldering, dark brown eyes of yours that sent shivers of electricity down my spine. This makes my heart sink, but the last time I uttered a word about Nietzsche and Descartes was with you. I guess nobody is interested in what we were interested in.

   I’ve been thinking a whole about death these past few days. Maybe it’s because I went twenty-four hours without eating or drinking any water - I have acknowledged and come to terms that I feel genuinely empty inside and it’s beginning to show on the outside; gaunt, bony, eyes sunken, dark complexion. People are noticing. I think I’ve been feeling this way for awhile now, but the stark realization of how dead my heart has been didn’t hit me until this morning because it took me a couple of hours to drag my heavy body out of bed. I almost thought I had died already. My mind has been desperately trying to keep itself busy with things other than the nagging sound of my own thoughts, so today I made it a critical point to be with myself and only myself in the coldness of the grim silence. So far, it has been absolutely miserable.

  I think I’m lacking love.