This Valentine's Day

Dear almost-lover.

There's a picture of us: you standing on a chair and holding me tight. My hands are wrapping around your waist. Your face lit with that crooked smile, your eyes kohl-lined, your hair scruffy from dancing too much. Somehow, I remember that picture even though we looked horrendous.

Maybe because it was vulnerable: there was no pretense, there was no pose, and we never uploaded it. It was just us: you, being your clumsy self, and me; trying to make sense of what I am holding. Often, you asked me to pick the best 'candid' shot after ten takes. You wrote photo-captions and made me edit them. If that didn't work, you forced me to find a profound line from the internet. I drunk-texted you, and you replied with voice notes singing my favorite songs. Every time I took you in my arms: I felt a strange warmth.

But for the world, we didn't exist.

Like a well-hidden secret, there are no traces of 'us.' No one asked us about it; no one comforted. There are no statuses, dedications, or pictures. It ended with as much swiftness as it began. One morning we woke up, and we were not there.

We were near it:

close enough to feel the intense rhythm; close enough to know it could be love.

But we went astray.

The worst kind of loss is the one that could have existed but never did.

Your absence is a space, and I don't have anything to fill it with. Even now, I sometimes hear those sleazy songs that you made me listen.

I scroll through your Instagram feed, read your captions, and I wonder who edits them.
I read our old chats, and I cry while laughing.
I drink and send you messages, hoping to hear you sing off-key.

But you never reply with voice notes.
Not anymore.

Words from here