Remember when I convinced myself that the man I was in love with would meet and promptly fall love with my best friend? I heard something — that he was in New York for the summer, or that she was. The idea that they might cross paths. And then, the conviction that they would. How I spent long summer weeks tearful, alternating between longing and rage. That the two people I loved most in the world would choose each other over me. That I would be shut out.
It starts in the body. The stomach flips. Or is it the heart.
Sometimes an inkling. A hunch. Sometimes you know someone so well, or think you do, that you believe you can predict their actions. Sometimes, you see a thing and are convinced you can trace it back to its source. Sometimes, you are right, and you think I am so good at being right. Sometimes, you want very much to be wrong.
A dream of high school, again. Is it because I always think of her around her birthday? Late summer, suffused with melancholy. The shapeless days coming to an end, but not quite yet --
There are things I still want to do in these final weeks. The grave and the trivial. Where has the summer gone?
Let this be the record of these days passing. Let this be the document of hours spent in doubt, in curiosity, in wonder. A little joy.
On the ends of things, she said: “There is grief, and there is gratitude. And grief. And then, there is embracing your new life.”