Dear A.

I’ve been reading lots of letters and they seem so much better than a diary. The idea that you might read these one day makes it so much more comforting, even though I’ll never send them. Somehow I still consider you my oldest friend, even if we haven’t spoken in years. But we were friends before everything changed. Before dreams became a reality, before depression, anxiety, loneliness. Before hard work, rent and tax. You were my friend before sex, heart-brake and being gay. When this life that I’m living was a far possibility, an unfathomably bright future. We thought this future up, together. I miss that. And I miss you, too. I’d like to think that I can still dream as vividly, but it’s hard to do without you.

You might say life came between us, but I don’t think that’s true. It seems more like it swept me away. I didn’t think there was another option but follow its lead.

Did life leave you behind? Did I leave you behind?

The thought of you stuck in our hometown, living somebody else’s boring life makes me sad. However the thought of you being content in that life, maybe forgetting those dreams, is much more bitter

When I ran away to Berlin, did I already know we were parting ways? It seems to me I lost you, like I’m a veteran of soul-sucking small town life with its small minds and ceaseless routines. You’ve been left in the trenches, perhaps to die there. (I’ve never lost my knack for dramatic metaphors, a childish trait.)

It’s pretty lonely out here. Do I have the wrong expectations? No one will take you place, why would I expect them to? There have been many new best friends, but they’re not what the two of us were. But that could be a side effect of growing up. Friendships are no longer to grow dreams together, but to endure reality together. And I wasn’t there to endure your reality with you.

But there’s another, less nostalgic side to this.

Perhaps I’m wrong. Maybe everyone got the memo but me. Maybe the fact sunk in that our dreams are just dreams. Because just maybe it doesn’t matter what we do, or where we are. Maybe happiness is about satisfaction. And if we were to just lower our standards a little bit, stop looking so far ahead, and if we just took pretty pictures of our average life, it would all be well. (Please don’t think that’s what I believe you’re doing. I still think you’re in for something bigger.)

I make this sound so pretentious, but it could may well be true. I’m never satisfied and happiness is anything but a constant in my life.

I’m sorry, A. I just miss you awfully because this town is sunny but cold and the lake is so small but so stunning and I wish you could see it. There’s no one here to share it with, and even if there was, they wouldn’t understand it.

No one sees the world as I do anymore. Not even you.

Yours sincerely


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