A Note For You

Lying in bed, doing nothing, a strange feeling crept over me. Fingers, once moving mindlessly over the phone screen, froze in place. Thoughts of you had interrupted the scrolling. A song started playing—"Crab" by Alex G. Our song.   

Not that it matters now.  

The way you used to dance to it is still clear: erratic, ridiculous, completely unserious. Laughter came easily back then, my voice nearly drowning out the song itself. Now, there is only silence.  

Picking apart the lyrics revealed something: they had predicted this moment. The saddest words carried by an upbeat tune. Back then, we never paid attention to them, too caught up in our own world to notice. Now, they ring in my ears because there is no one here to laugh over them.  

What will I think about in five years? Will it still be you? Or will someone else have taken your place in this strange cycle of reflection?  

You wronged me.  

It feels odd to write those words. Odd to acknowledge them. Why?  

We were close, then drifted—it's strange how these things happen, sometimes too slowly to notice, and other times, too fast to stop.  

Hearing the song now feels like I am the one singing.   

“Do you miss me, you sad lady? 'Cause I'm really feeling down And if you're feeling lonesome too, I'd like it if you came around”  

Adjusting to your absence wasn’t hard at first. But then there were moments when nobody understood the references, the inside jokes only you would have laughed at. That’s when the craving hit—a need to text, to reach out.

 Like a sweet tooth during a strict diet. Everyone says a little indulgence is fine in moderation, but those truly committed won’t cave. No text will be sent. No cake eaten.  

Since you left in April, there have been changes. More friends. A boyfriend of nearly ten months who is also my best friend. I still feel your absence some nights. New friends don’t always get the jokes. You wouldn’t like them, anyway. Old friends remain close, maybe even closer, yet, I fall back into the cycle of wanting to talk to you.  

At ten, I took horseback riding lessons. The instructor stood in the middle of the arena while I circled her, over and over, trying to master a trick. The trick was never really learned. Even now, years later, it’s clear: still circling. Still trying to figure out how to move on.