It was ten years ago last June when I walked into a room to see a solitary young woman wearing a yellow tshirt and khakis. She was reading a book – Paolo Coelho’s Veronika Decides To Die – and she was digesting it without a care in the world.
She was a stranger then, and I’m not one to talk to strangers. I asked one the persons I was with to talk to her, befriend her. That young lady ended up to be of the most important people in my life.
After classes that day, we found ourselves drinking at a friend’s house. We talked for hours, bonded, and established a relationship that lasted til this day. I didn’t know how we became close so quickly. I didn’t know how we never ran out of conversations (we talked mostly about ourselves.) I didn’t know how two people who are completely different in every way could ever be so close. Over the years, we discovered that we did have common interests. TV shows (One Tree Hill,) music (Gin Blossoms,) etc.
We weren’t really all that different, as I came to find. We had a shared darkness, as I call it. We were, are, both broken.
I saw her at her best and at her worst. I’ve been witness to her breakdowns and unnatural elation. I was, on the other hand, still guarded. Still had my walls up.
It wasn’t until two weeks before her flight to a new home that I first heard her say that we’re the same, that we’re both suffering from the same thing. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it until then. Maybe I was too close to be looking at it from the outside. Had I realized it before then, I would have confided in her more, opened myself up to her more.
Yeah, yeah, she’s not really gone. But it’s just different when she’s here. I could’ve hugged her more. Could’ve told her “I love you” in person more. Could’ve said all the things I should’ve said, like how much I appreciate her, how much she changed my life. You know, all that feelings shit.
I miss her.