I feel like I’m in limbo.
There is an unaddressed ache in my chest that comes at the strangest moments. I could be walking to the bus stop and suddenly stop in my tracks, thrown back to a vague memory — instigated by a scent, a sight, a face, or “Ribs” by Lorde playing in my headphones from shuffling my playlist.
I could be in front of the cash register, paying for my usual coffee order and the cashier would have to snap me back in place as I’d just dozed off into another memory, all my attention directed back into the sharp pain in my chest.
Later on, I would end up dumping the drink out and getting a new one, since I never really liked that drink in the first place.
And it’s not like I loved “Ribs” by Lorde either — but you did. The order I got wasn’t my usual coffee order — it was yours. You would always go on and on about how great it was, about how it was your “go-to.” Even though I never understood what was in it, or why you even liked it, I gladly took up your offer to have me try it.
And I still remember those stupid little details because it's hard to erase years of building memories, of learning things, of conflicts — resolved and unresolved.
No one really talks about how harrowing friendship break-ups are. Break-ups with a partner are devastating, but that’s what you have your friends for. What do you do when the people you would go to during a break-up become the break-up?
No one talks about how devastating it is to suddenly go from your notifications pinging incessantly in class to absolutely nothing at all. From greeting their parents at the door to never seeing them again, and never being able to explain to them what happened. From collecting pictures and relics to burning them.
And the worst of it all is no one has a guidebook that tells you how to grieve, and maybe that's for the better. Maybe it's for the best that no one tells you how to process what you’re going through because no one actually knows what it's like to be there.
How do you rebuild from years of growing? Years of firsts? Of tears? Of revealing yourself constantly? How do you go from trusting someone completely to never speaking again? What do you even do when you open your memory box — filled with memories — becomes the thing that makes you sad?
And worst of all how do I even tell my cat?
What am I gonna do with the knowledge that you like your coffee black? What am I gonna do with the knowledge that your parents don’t get along and you drive over to my place to tell me all about it? What am I gonna do with all the silly nicknames we used to give to the boys we used to like?
If I told a 15-year-old me what had just happened, she would grab and shake me and beg me to say that it was not true, tears streaming down her face. She would tell me there was no way — that they knew too much. You had plans with this person — to marry them when you’re 30 and still single. You drove through rich neighborhoods with them and talked about which houses you would live in and grow old in. Pregnancy pacts, anniversaries — you did it all.
But there’s nothing I can do but trudge forward — every step lighter than the last. I know this isn’t the end of the world and I know the ache will stop. There will always be a new set of failures and achievements you will never get to know. There will be road trips you won’t be on, graduations without you there, and moves that won’t involve you. There will be new beginnings — as with all endings — and I will build again.
And maybe there will come a time when we will meet again. Maybe fleetingly, on the streets we used to frequent, or the places we used to say belonged to us. We’ll shoot the shit — I’ll ask you how your sister is, and you’ll say she has a baby now or something.
We’ll talk some more, then we’ll part ways.
I'll remember the memories, but also remember why it never would have worked out. The holes, cracks and all the unaddressed flaws.
One day, I’ll listen to that song we both liked instead of skipping it. It’ll stop being our song, and the hurt will stop.
But for now, I will sit in the pain because then I know that it was worth something — that I can always love again.