You goddamn fool, soon as I get the chance I’ma gonna kill you. Probably literally.
I wholeheartedly wish I could say, “I hate you,” and mean it. And I’d probably have plenty of reason to. After all, in my entire fifteen(!) years of existence you’re the only person who ever gave me a stomachache. (Okay, that was probably yesterday’s dinner, but still, you exacerbated it.) Not even my other friends–bless them–ever gave me something as painful as that, unless endless lectures and a monotonous recital of my faults count, which is unlikely.
It’s been at least a year since we’ve known each other. In that short time, there have been various ups and downs, and several occasions when it had been a pretty close thing either way. Sure, we haven’t seen it all, but we were pretty close.
But all that’s coming to an end now. You’ll be on your own for two whole years (praise de lorde), and–Ye Gods And Little Fishes–are just weeks shy of being sixteen. Oh gods, sixteen! You’d never believe it, looking at you, that you were closer sixteen than fourteen. Or maybe thirteen. To me, you’re still that fourteen-year old we knew an age ago. Or maybe it’s been just a year. I have no idea. But I do know one thing–you’re growing up.
I don’t know what you’ll be like in two years. Hell, I don’t even know what I’ll be like in two years! But I sure hope we can still maintain the old bond that we’d shared the past year. Because, believe it or not, we had quite a lot in common (I surprise even myself). And I dunno what you feel about this, but I’m going to miss you.
Okay, it’s out there in the open. And I don’t regret saying it–I’m going to miss you, dammit. Most everything I see seems to remind me of you–more so since you’re going away. And while the best course of action to take would be to grin and bear it, my stupid brain insists on getting emotional.
It’s a right pain in the neck, having a mind which doesn’t know itself. One minute, it’s telling me that this is all for the best and that two years is not that long a time, and the next it’s telling me that it can’t bear it a minute longer. What I’d really like to do is sit in one place and do absolutely nothing all day long (apart from read and write, tasks waayy more important than eating and sleeping to my puah confused lil’ brain), but unfortunately circumstances prevent me from doing so. So I content myself by doing the next-best thing–keeping myself so busy that I don’t think about it. Unfortunately, those emotions have this stupid habit of forcing themselves on me when I least want them. Think Atithi Tum Kab Jaoge?, with guests who positively refuse to leave the house other than at gunpoint (I haven’t tried that method yet) and keep slipping drugs into our food and drink. (Ignore that last line if you’re not an Indian.)
I tell myself I’ve recovered. And for some time I think I have. Then I see something else that reminds me… and it’s back, worse than ever. You probably know all this, though, since, unless I’m hopelessly obtuse (or hopelessly optimistic), you’re going through the same kind of thing yourself.
I don’t want to talk to you, since I don’t want you to feel worse than you already do, but at the same time I feel I just have to talk to you to keep from going insane. (I know I already am, but I mean insaner than I already am. Like, serious insane.) But this just hurts you even more, and so I resolve to send you just one last message, one last text… which never really comes.
I suppose the more immature part of my brain is in denial that you’re leaving. You were one of the fixtures here–you can’t actually be going. That’s probably why my brain is fighting against itself. And it won’t stop completely till you’re actually gone. Till I finally come to terms with the fact that you’re gone, plain and simple as that.
But, man, whatever you do, I’ll be there to support you. I don’t know how you’ll be after two years (good, I hope?), but whatever happens, you’ll still be my friend, first and foremost. I’ll never forget how much what you said could lift me when I wasn’t exactly in a good mood. I don’t really think I can say the same of myself so far, but that doesn’t mean I won’t–or can’t–do the same whenever you need a hand. Because you mean a lot to me. (See, I admitted it.)
I still wish I could kill you. But I won’t, because I love you. (There you go, happy now?) You’re one of my closest friends, and, believe me, I’m glad we came to know each other as well as we do now. There’s still long ways to go, but for now, we know each other well. And I’m proud to say it.
Take care, and see you in two years, when the grass will be greener, the sun will shine brighter, and the sky will be bluer (or so I hope). Where there’s life, there’s hope.
After all, two years isn’t that long a time, is it?