Edited by Antara Joshi
Dear V,
I am doing badly; I am doing well— whichever you prefer. I hope you aren’t doing badly; I hope you’re doing well.
I know the sun sets sooner in your city than it does in mine. I want you to know that I still look up at the night sky to find the constellations you taught me to spot five years ago. What I am trying to say in this letter is only this— I remember. And I remember well.
I remember us, celebrating Durga Puja together— I think of you every October. I remember the long letters you would leave in between the pages of my books. You were the first to tuck a rose in my hair; that was when I learnt that roses were my favourite flower. I remember us teaching each other our favourite instruments, your guitar and my piano. I remember the long walks after school. I remember leaning on some worn-down gravestone in the old cemetery, head on your shoulder, watching the sunset. I wonder if you remember it all too. Just between us, I think of you more often than I’d like to admit.
Some days, when I’m passing by the florist on the way to work, I look at a tulip in the window and think about the origami tulip you gave me when I was nervous about an exam.
Some days, I almost miss you.
You must be sitting in some fancy restaurant sipping a glass of whiskey, just the right amount of sophistication. You probably still wear full-sleeved shirts in the unbearable heat of your city, the first two buttons from the collar left open. Maybe, you roll up the sleeves to your elbow, exposing the tattoo on your left forearm of Icarus falling that I designed for you. I hope it makes you think of me, even if only fleetingly. Do you still carry your favourite green pen with you everywhere you go? I remember how I’d steal it from your pocket and draw stars around your tattoo, and you’d let me watch with that endearing smile. Years have passed and somehow, you’re still in everything I write.
Nostalgia exists so that we can put on its rose-tinted glasses and look back on the past with longing and not just spite. I can reminisce about the beauty of your hands when they were strumming a song for me, without letting the memory of the same hand crashing down on my cheek taint that beautiful sound. I can still hum the melody and think of your voice in my ear without wanting to rip off every inch of skin that you touched.
I kept all those long letters you wrote to me in a blue tin box, tucked away in a corner of my cupboard. This is a long letter to you. I never replied to any of yours— consider this one.
I sometimes wonder if you realise the damage your words and your hands did to me. Do you still leave shattered hearts behind you wherever you go? In my imagination, I think of you waking up in the middle of the night to a long overdue epiphany. In my imagination, I make you feel so guilty and dream up different versions of the same apology.
We removed each other from our lives so thoroughly but our mutual friends still remain the forbidden bridge. I remember one of them telling me you were finally seeing someone, someone who isn’t me. A week later, I learnt that you’d decided to be on your own again. Was she pretty, prettier than me? I bet she couldn’t recognise the chords in your melodies by ear as well as I did. But did she make you forget all about the wildfires I set in our lives? I bet she couldn’t have liked the sound of your voice as much as I did. You might let your hands roam the bodies of dozens of strangers but they could never touch one that loves you better than mine.
Foolishly, I hope that you look for me in every woman you try to love, I hope that you fail. Foolishly, I hope that you fail to love anyone that isn’t me. The women in your life may come and go, but I spend every dandelion, every stray eyelash wishing that you never want them enough to make them stay.
You showed me love; you know that. You taught me pain; do you know that? I remember your birthday every year, but I don’t wish you any more. It takes everything in me to press backspace on the message. There is so much left in my world but sometimes I miss your presence in it. Messy hair, callused fingers dragged along my spine, so much laughter.
I remember your phone number by heart. Is it still the same?
Love, always,
H.