Monday, February 10, 2014

hollowed.

We met six years ago at the bottom of a staircase.

I wanted him because I thought he was bad, but he turned out to be good and one of the greatest friends I ever had until he cut us all out and became a stranger to the world.

But before he left, he put a firm hand on my shoulder and said, “Stop,” and I thought a lot about that conversation in the years that followed because he was the first person to look me in the eye and say, "You’re worth your life."

Anyways, that last time I saw him--before we started and then abruptly stopped writing to one another--he said to me, in between drinks, "There was something about you when we first met. It's like you were empty. You were in pain."

He was right, and I told him that--that the girl he met at the bottom of a staircase in 2008 was far from who I was two years later. He said he was happy for me. He said he loved me. It wasn't the first time he said it, because the first time he said it was around a bar table, and I told him I didn’t love him because I couldn’t love anyone. But he knew I was lying because of the boy six seats down—the one with all the charisma who everyone loved and who would never love me.

I cried with him later that night about losing him and losing everyone. He told me life was about losing people, and over the next year, he too kept disappearing until he was completely gone.

There are times when I cry that I hear him inside my head, telling me to stop, and then I stop because he's still right. Nothing is ever too terrible to overcome. I don’t really cry these days unless I accidentally dream about that boy six seats down at the bar table, but that’s another story for later.

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