If you were here, I might tell you how much I miss you. I might tell you that, through the ups and (mostly) downs of my days right now, I could use you here. Instead, as every person should, you are away, working on your self. I admire that. I admire you. I always have.
If you were here, I’d feel that feeling in my stomach. The feeling of love but not love just friendship but more than friendship but not dangerous, just good. Butterflies for a friend. For your friendship. For you.
If you were here, I couldn’t tell you that I miss you so tremendously and that I’m mad you left (how can I be mad at you for living your life?). I couldn’t tell you that, through my pain, I’ve reached out to the memory of you being a phone call or a drop-by visit away, but you were half a world away, and now you are almost a province away.
Butterflies when you wrote me, sadness and the disappointment of a child when I read that you wrote me for a favour. I got upset. Even swore. Even questioned your part in our friendship, and then realized that you wouldn’t know – you couldn’t know – how much I miss you and love you, because you hear people tell you that all the time. You are “that friend” to many. They may just be words to you. And as writers, we both know, words quite often aren’t powerful enough.
If you were here, maybe I’d try to explain. It’s like this: I don’t open up to just anyone. In fact, I hardly open at all. So when I do, it’s with a purpose. I want you to let yourself in. Like, right in. And that’s the thing. Everybody loves you, and you probably have people open up to you all the time, so when my little voice tells you how much I care for you, need you, want you here – words probably so familiar to you – you wouldn’t know that you are the only one that I’m asking that of.
If you were here, I’d thank you for opening my eyes up a year and a half ago. If you were here, I’d ask you to do it again.
Without you here, there isn’t a whole lot of colour. But you wouldn’t know.