Dear ××××××,

I don't have much to say about your eyes or smile, just that I chase them daily. I have no long prose or poetry of how they shine so radiant or draw like a magnet, just the facts, cold hard facts you might appreciate. I don't know why, but I chase your smile, your gaze. Not like a lifeline, but certainly close. I know a quirk of the lips won't save me, no look could be my salvation, but I can't help but do my best to gain both. I don't think I've even caught myself thinking they are beautiful, however that doesn't nullify my desire.

Dear ××××××,

I don't have much to say, except I wish we at least friends. (Maybe we already are? Perhaps.) Yes, friendship might not sooth these sore wounds, but I'd like to think it could bring me peace of mind, knowing I can be close to you and that you accept that desire, perhaps even reciprocate it. I know it's wishful thinking on my part, but I am drawn to your image throughout the day and must pry my conciousness from our past conversations time after time just to retain sanity. It's slowly slipping away as your words become more distant, but ever as deeply engraved in my mind.

Dear ××××××,

Call it pining, but I long to be by your side, even if you aren't always looking. I wish to be something, even if not the centrepiece of your affections. I wish to impress you, to bind my worth to your reactions (perhaps I already have) and achieve a state where you can be proud to call me a companion. When all other relationship fall aside like petals off a flower of disillusionment, you remain firm and alive, and I treasure that. I simply wish to admire that vivaciousness more closely. 

Dear ××××××,

You know I plan to leave soon, and you seem unbothered by it. Almost more bothered that I'd mention leaving than the leaving itself. That aches like pressure on a broken bone somewhere deep within me, but I will not give up. Maybe you are putting on airs, remaining casual and flippant as to not disturb the status quo. Maybe I read too deeply into a simple radical acceptance of the facts. Maybe I just don't matter to you the way you matter to me. I will likely be going soon, and we shall see.

A letter to Z

~~~~~ 

I've always wondered what went on beyond those trees.

Yes, as we sat on those swings, I would often wonder that.

We always did end up going back to those swings, too. I think they were actually removed recently. I wonder if we'll ever get to sit on swings and talk together like that again. The trees all got cut down too, so it wouldn't be the same. Even if those trees are gone, though, I'll still wonder what's beyond the horizon. That's just what I do.

It's funny, we always just sort of assumed that things'd stay mostly the same. Oh well.

I remember us coming back to those swings, even as the seasons changed; from sweltering heat that had adults reminding us not to run or we'd faint, to changed leaves that we loved to collect, and then frozen leaves on the blacktop, giving way to sleet and then snow, and sometimes we'd get yelled at by the lunch monitors for not wearing boots in the snow (but it was fluffy snow anyway, so it was fine), and then those times where I'd let you borrow one glove and I'd keep the other so we could both write in our matching notebooks while trying to balance them on our laps as we pumped on the swings, going so high we'd get nauseous. Then the biting, bitter cold would get melted back into a drizzle, with the scent of fresh earth and grass and adventure as the trees all unpackaged their blooms, and the sun sometimes shone, but mostly it was still gloomy.

I remember the thin-spread sand lining the swings, and where, right behind them, we buried coins and painted stones and golden chocolate gelt that you insisted were "real treasure from genuine pirates that were passed down for centuries," in your family, which made my cousin, who was in the same grade as us, cry when she discovered that they were not, in fact, as we said. (You can blame her brother, who was two years older, for bursting her bubble. Poor M.) I still remember the way you said "bury" in a way that the first syllable sounded like that in "bird," and the way you'd gush about Harry Potter and look at me in distaste when I said I didn't like it before you told me that you did. 

That was in the second grade. 

I was a new student that year, the only one in our grade at that. You always became "friends" with the new kid, impressive, and were always subtly aiming to get into the "cool group." Of course I noticed, that's just what I do, but you always ended up coming back to me in the end.

Back to me and that swing set again. 

I remember all those conversations we had, filled with secret plans of "world domination" as I put it, and secret codes, and codenames(that only we knew about) for all the kids in our grade (which we did, and redid a few times), and of plans for a grand future. I remember laughing and talking and enjoying the silence with you all those times, over the creaking of those old swings we always sat on. 

Even with our alternating ups-and-downs we managed to stay somewhat in sync; I remember when we kept trying to high-five as we swung by each other, but with our young, short arms we couldn't reach and ended up veering all over, or the times we'd twist the chains as far as they'd go before letting go and spinning ourselves dizzy and sick, and I remember the occasional company who'd interrupt our secret plans and we'd have to play nice around and make small talk with. 

I remember when we were still just two little girls who everyone thought worked perfect together: one was shy and well-behaved and got good grades, the other was similarly tempered albeit a bit strange, and yet made up for it by being 'the cleverest child they'd ever seen;' the first with almost-straight, wavy black hair and olive skin, called a strange word: 'Pakistani,' and the other with curly dirty blond hair she always wore up and cloudy greenish eyes that nothing seemed to be able to escape. I remember swinging, even as all those years passed; as you donned a hijab and sweeter way of talking, and as I slowly, invisibly, sank deeper into a quiet despair. 

I remember you complaining about having only hand-me-down clothes and shoes from your sister or how everyone said the two of you looked the same(although you definitely didn't) and how I'd spin wild stories to cheer you up, all the while letting myself fall further into the pit as I dug you out. 

I remember whispering about who liked who in our codenames, and the drama of fifth grade's "cheese," "crackers," and "salami," that still cracks me up to this day. 

I remember slowly coming to realize that despite supposedly being shy, I talked far to much in class (by answering questions, of course) and noticing the difference between you, who kept your head down, even though you were always just as interested if not more so, and certainly more gossipy, than me in any given topic or conversation or relationship.

And it's not something I'd ever admit, but I always envied the shape of your eyes, and how beautiful your loopy handwriting looked. The way you could flip personality and voice so effortlessly, and managed not to get caught up in anything. I'm a jealous person, honestly, and I hate myself when I am. Not that anyone else notices. Ah, but I suppose it doesn't really matter now. We still went back to the swings in the end despite it all.

That reminds me of you wishing out loud that you could be as carefree as me, whatever that means. Maybe it was for the same reason everyone thought I wanted to hear a bunch of empty compliments back then. I don't know where you all got that idea, but darling, you must have been mistaken; it was only after that, that I always made sure to put on a mask of security and confidence to cover up those endless nights spent in tears at home. I never talked about home; for all the stories I told, and stuff I (perhaps)... well, fabricated. I only remember a couple of times where I really ever got openly angry, which I only do when reminded of that place; it was in front of you, one time, and the girl who lived next door to my father's house in that last year or so, the other. Perhaps it was too much of a contrast between my usual indifferent personality, because both of you looked a bit scared, though you probably didn't notice. After that, I was more cautious, and never did anything like that again. Once again, we ended up going back to those swings. 

Maybe the humanity in me would say I miss those swings, and you too, but I can't even say that for sure. I don't like to look back and regret things, no matter what.

Even so, I still remember those swings; we sat there every day during recess and ate our lunches (even though we weren't supposed to, because that's what lunch was for, but no one ever scolded for that anyway) and later on, Frenchy sometimes used to join us, although only to swing. 

I still remember when trees grew thick in the car park(parking lot), and then when they only dotted the mesh fence behind the swings that are probably gone now. I remember the creeeeeak-crink, creeeeeak-crink and the way the set would heave under us, if both of us were swinging as we got older. 

I still remember the sprawling field that doesn't look as big as it used to anymore (it's a car park now), past the big playset full of wood chips that some people, and even us, sometimes, would play football (or soccer, as you guys call it) in. We used to have the troubled kids club party there, and our end-of-the-year parties were held there too.

We graduated this fall, you at the end of one line in front of me. I wonder where you'll be going, what lies ahead. How you're doing, though I dare not ask. It's been too long of a silence and we've changed too much.

All that circles back and reminds me of those swings, and the trees, and all the changes, and you, and all of grammar school.

It reminds me of that old, creaky swing set, and us, just swinging. Some days I'd look into the trees and wonder what spread out beyond them. If they were still there, I'm sure I still would.

dear L,  

none of us choose to be here. we just bear it the best we can. 

sometimes i want to leave. to somewhere. anywhere. just not here. 

i am standing in the dim train station. my left hand holds the handle of a suitcase and my right hand holds my phone, the bright light reflecting off my glasses and illuminating my face. the station lights have flickered off one by one until there is only one left — the one on the concrete pillar next to me. 

i am waiting. for what? 

i think i’m waiting for you. or rather, to get away from you. 

a clink resounds from the floor, echoing throughout the empty barren hall. one of my rings has fallen but i am too tired to reach down to get it. i examine my fingers to see which ring has fallen. and of course, it is the one you gave me. 

how cruel is fate? 

it was spring and i had forgotten myself and who i was. when i finally remembered you had already left and i spent an entire summer searching for you. i found you in late july but in early august you left again. it has now been a year and i think after august ends i will sleep myself to death. i wonder if this is my last summer. 

in another timeline i am 11 and none of this has happened. 

yet in this timeline i will endure a lifetime of missing you — over and over again. 

it’s funny. at first, i was afraid that i would never see you again. i was afraid that i would never recognize your face again. but now, i see you in everyone— everything. and i am afraid that i will never see anyone else again. i will never forget your hands that august night. it’s been a year and i still remember your words. 

i still watch the clock for 11:11. i still look for three birds sitting on the same wire. i still sit in a field for hours, looking for a four leaf clover. i still wish for you. 

maybe someday i will stop wishing for the wrong things. 

maybe someday you will realize how hard i tried. 

a drop of water rolls down my cheek. i look up and i am met with the crying sky. more droplets of water roll down my cheeks. i know they are tears, but i cannot tell if they are mine or the sky’s. the clouds look at me and they cry, too. even the gods know how miserable i am— so why don’t you? 

i really want to go home, you know? i’ve been trying to go home my entire life. 

i don’t know where home is, though. you taught me i can be homesick for a person— and that sometimes, a person is home. you were my home. 

you are so deeply engraved in my soul. a part of me has hope for us still, but it is pointless hope. delusional hope. 

for a minute, we are on the beach again, watching our footsteps disappear, swallowed by the waves. as if they were never there to begin with. in that moment, i understood everything (forever) (a place where worlds meet). 

i wonder what will be left of me when the waves come? 

it’s strange but i have a theory. that the water and the waves bleed blue blood as they scream in pain every time a shard of glass is swallowed. yet they spit out a perfectly smooth glass stone. 

i stood in the waves staining the blue water red with my sins. the salt water washes into my wounds and i collapse into the water (nothing but another shard of glass). and for a minute, you are the sea and the salt, and i am still standing. 

when i dream, it is still of you. i still see you in my dreams and i still hug you. but now i hug you a little tighter, because i know when i wake up you will be gone. i tell you “i love you” a little more and you say it back a little more, because i know when i wake up i will never hear that again. i stare at you a little more, because i know when i wake up i will never be able to see you in that light again. 

in my dreams, you never changed. 

sometimes i wonder if you ever loved me at all. did you love all of me or only the part that reminded you of her? maybe we weren’t so similar after all. 

i wonder, and history repeats itself, again. 

your silence told me everything i needed to know. i miss you (or at least who you were before everything went wrong). you’ve already moved on but i am still standing where you left me. you were the first person to make me feel like i mattered. 

i can wish all you want but you aren’t coming back. 

was i always this broken? 

what if this was me all along— what a tragedy that would be. 

my bones are crushed by the weight of all the lives i am not living (along with the shrieking wheels of the train and my skin comes into contact with cold metal then warm metal and then it burns it burns it burns and it will burn all the tragedy out of me). 

and nobody cared because why would they? i can see them in the shadows but the minute i lock eyes with them they turn away. 

nothing ends poetically. life is short and cruel. the blood and pain were never beautiful— they were just red.  

did you know that a shooting star is just a dying star? 

you asked me why i spoke in past tense once. 

i think you know the answer to that now. 

and all of this will die within me because i never tried to live. 

we were everything and nothing at the same time; but for the rest of time, we will be nothing. you will be nothing. i will be nothing. 

maybe in another life we did all the things we said we would do. 

Dear ~~~~~,

Recently  

You told me you fell for me

The moment we first met,

And when you got to know me better

You only fell harder.

I could not believe that,

I chose not to believe that

Because that would only make

Our story that much more painful.

I am torn between being flattered and falling apart for

I remember  

When my younger sister mentioned 

Someone had asked you out 

My heart plummeted and jealousy stirred

An ugly tempest in my stomach

I prayed you would say no,

And when you did I'm sure my cheeks flushed

And I subconsciously sighed in relief.

I don't know when I fell for you,

But that's when I figured it out. 

That’s when I realised I saw you as more.

Such an ugly way to find out something so beautiful, so

I like your story better. 

Dear ~~~~~,

You are my moon, and I your tide

I'm sorry that I pull you close one moment

And then push away the next,

It is woven into my nature, but that is no excuse.

You're intoxicating, you know

I can't get enough of you, and you say you feel the same

But I'm afraid that won't last forever

So I flee, fabricate distance between us

Like that will trick our hearts into forgetting each other.

I'm sorry I frighten, become flighty and

Leave you to fend for yourself.

The truth is, I know danger will follow me,

So like a mother bird leaves her nest to protect,

To divert the attention of a predator,

I leave you behind so that my presence elsewhere may keep you safe. 

After all,

Who would stand beneath a tree in a storm, knowing lightning will strike?

You, apparently.

You wait patiently, fully aware of the dangers and it scares me

How little regard you seem to hold for your own well-being

Selflessness for a friend or love? Or perhaps just recklessness?

Your steadfast patience frightens me, though I admire it,

I can’t help but feel it would best be spent elsewhere,

On someone more worthy.

Your understanding when I return makes my guilt multiply,

How can you be so happy to stand by someone like me?

I hope you realise my actions do not make me happy either.

Dear ~~~~~,

The other day I made a promise

To you and to me.

I’m done hurting you “for your own sake”

I’m done running when I should stay

I realise that I am wrong to think

Me going for good will hurt for just a moment 

And then everything will be fine in your world.

I have steeled my resolve to stand by you;

The best way to honour your commitment is to return it

Best I can.

I will no longer allow myself to be swept away by emotions

No matter how intensely they whisper in my ears.

I care about you

And so I will do my best to make you happy.

Truly, #####