Deep breath in. “I miss you,” I whisper.
And then it becomes quiet. No buzzing of insects, no gusts of
wind, no muffled sobs. There is no rhythm in the air.
Deep breath out. The ambient noise returns.
The sun sets. It is time to say goodbye. I get in the car, and I
watch the graveyard shrink in the rearview window.
I have changed since that moment, but I have hurt all the
same. When I left home for college, it was hard to open up,
to listen, to learn. The walls you tore down to help me be
vulnerable and intimate—I rebuilt them. I didn’t know any
other way to figure anything out. I was lonely still, and I was
afraid. I was scared that people like me weren’t out there.
I had heard all sorts of the same things: that college would be
exciting, that I would be fine, that I should not be afraid. But
it was really hard without you.
While I have had many conversations, too many were with
myself. My insecurities ate at me. I felt misunderstood. I was
not an imposter, nor a liar, nor a cheat; I was simply alone. My
identity was my own, and there were none with whom I could
share it. So after a while I realized my fears, once more: I was
scared that people like you weren’t out there.
But friendship is risk. It is uncertain and incomplete. As
a learning process, it grows, it builds, and it listens. It is a
safe place where love can grow. It spreads the weight of my
burdens and reminds me of what I can learn and how I can
help. The words we shared together gave me hope.
I fell in love with our common bond and our trust. No matter
what experiences we shared, trust tied our sacred bond of
friendship together, held close by our joys and our tears. Trust
made love evident and bright. A friend felt like a second self,
one that knew my reflection, my flaws, my joys, and my fears.
I thought I knew what love is: to be with like-minded people
and to share with people who understand.
But that is not why I am writing this letter — to tell you an
incorrect definition of a four-letter word.
I’ve been talking to myself, and still I wonder if I am addressing
someone else. How could this be? What should I do now? Why does no
one hear my cries? My questions have led to fractured arguments
— never with you, but always with God.
Is this a test? Or is this arbitrary? I have despaired. Such thoughts
often feel far too removed from the reality of what happened.
They push me into a reality where I am forced to decide on
what it was supposed to mean.
People ask me, “How are you doing today?” These binaries
to questions frustrate me: “good” or “bad,” “meaning” or
“meaningless,” “moved on” or “mourning.” What should
my answers be? Some days it is one, others it is another. It
is confusing, blurry, and frustrating. So I cried out and asked
God the same: “How do you feel? Are you hurting like me?”
For a long time, my heart was closed off, and I did not listen.
Yet still, He whispered back to me. “I had a friend,” he said.
“He became sick, and I was too late. They had already buried
him. I thought I knew what to say and what to do. I wept.
How else was I supposed to feel?” He paused. A heavy silence
overtook him.
“I loved him. As much as you loved her.”
Love isn’t wanting someone, nor is it when you find people like
you, and yet it is not something to fear. No, love is different;
I know it. It must be. Before love, fear enveloped my heart. I
had believed that God did not care. I had been so scared to
face if that was true. I grew fearful to talk to Him. He asked
me to trust Him, and that terrified me. How could I trust that
love could return after you had left?
Yet the only way I am able to love now is because I am
convinced that God had to love you as much as I did. His
heart broke like mine. But He was steadfast in his love for you
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