2.5

Grieving People Who Haven't Died

February 28th is a really strange day for me this year. Today marks one year since I realized I was in love with someone. I could point out to you just about where on that Providence sidewalk it clicked for me. This is what I wrote when I came home that night: 

Friday I realized that I’m in love with you. The energy in the room was great and everyone was getting along so you were happy. You looked at me and smiled and I wish I was able to take 1000 photos of that moment. For a moment my world stood still and even sound hesitated to enter my ears. Though you weren’t dressed up I thought you looked beautiful. You’re beautiful simply because you’re you. You passed through me like sunlight in a dense forest and gently warmed my chest. The energy shot up to behind my eyes and I felt all my senses expand into another dimension the same way they do during the best part of a favorite song. I looked into your eyes and wanted nothing more than to be truthful when you said “You’re looking at me like you’re expecting something.” I wasn’t expecting anything from you, but from myself. I thought I was going to tell you how much I love spending time with you and how much I love your face but I held back. It just wasn’t the right time. 

My words aren't great there (was probably drinking with my old roommate right before) but it paints enough of a picture. The way I remember this moment last year clearer than yesterday says so much. I can feel the memory of that feeling in my chest. I looked up at the sky tonight and remembered how beautiful I thought the sky was that Friday. Realizing I was back under that exact same set of stars after my highly uneventful workday felt crushing but somehow still beautiful. That was the first time I've ever romantically loved someone and the fact that nothing ever came out of it, and how that person isn't even in my life anymore, hurts so bad. It's so hard because it's not like he's fallen off the face of the earth. This is someone I could call right now if I dug through my old messages and found his number, though I'd likely get a horrible response. I will see him in person again and again as long as we both continue to love our local hardcore punk scene, though we most likely won't talk. I continue to work towards moving on because it's extremely likely we won't ever reconnect, even as friends.

I emphasize the likliness of it all because that's the worst part of grieving someone who isn't outright dead or entirely off the grid: possibility. The fact that there's not a true 0% chance of ever reconnecting with the person you've seemed to have lost makes it harder to put things to rest. My brain (not just for this person, but many), loves to harp on this to me all hours of the day: "Despite everything, maybe it's not over." It's as if those words undo the shitty stitch job I gave myself after being torn open. Then some asshole in the corner of my mind who thinks this is all funny runs over and seizes this opportunity to pour salt in them.

It's really weird to feel an emotion that's usually reserved for death when I think about people who are probably just doomscrolling on their phones right now. I even catch myself talking about some of them in the past tense, depending on how long it's been, but I still always wonder what they're up to and if they're doing okay.

I still talk about all of them. I tell my friends stories about them and about the things they liked and disliked and all the stupid little quirks they had. I make the same jokes we used to make together and do things we promised to do. I'll see things and think to myself, "God, they would've loved this." They make me laugh as much as they make me cry.

Despite the copious amounts of shit I'll make fun of these people for to my buddies, there's still some semblance of love deep, deep down. I miss my old best friends. I miss that guy. I miss my dad. All that rotting platonic, familial and romantic love I've locked away is never not going to hurt. Part of me always wants to pick up the phone but I also know painfully well how important it is that I don't. Sometimes people are much better as memories.