I’m not brave enough to write his name

We made a bet when we were sixteen.

Actually, you were fifteen.

I knew I’d lose. I did it so you would continue to speak to me. I liked seeing you care about something healthy.

Is that okay to say?

That I liked seeing you care?

That I miss watching you calm yourself down when you were with me; quit pretending?

You told me so much. I think about it, still. It makes me hurt a little, but I love you for offering it.

That vulnerability.

I loved you.

Is that alright?

What would you say if you knew?

Thanks.

I appreciate it.

You used to send me little notes and funny things and we’d smile at each other in the hallway when you didn’t have time to talk.

Your seat is empty, still. I’d give it back if you came in to claim it again, promise.

Do you think about it? Me?

Our friendship was weird. We had twenty minutes a day to talk but every second gave me more of you, made me enjoy you more.

You were so willing to change. To learn.

I guess that extends to changing beyond me. Moving on without my input or my love by your side.

I don’t even think your girlfriend knows how much you told me.

But I think that’s the point.

I don’t have any adequate words to describe this, but I have a lot of them, regardless.

Adequacy doesn’t mean anything when you feel something deeply enough—for a friendship deeper than platonic and weirder than familial.

I’ve been thinking about you a lot more lately. But I’ve stopped asking other people how you are a lot less. Your situation was complicated but I know you moved back and even though you’re not in school, I know you’re here.

I don’t think you hate me. But you’re trying to forget a lot of things about yourself and unfortunately, I fit.

I’m sorry, I think? You used to tell me I needed to stop saying it (sorry), but I miss you like I miss the scar on the back of my left arm I thought was cool when I was fourteen. 

Stupid and probably baseless but desperately, desperately.