Letter to a long lost friend

I’ve been afraid to reach out.

Not afraid. Afraid is the wrong word.

I realized one day that I most likely never expressed how much I liked hanging out with you. You were a really good friend. I’m sorry we’ve lost touch.

I feel like I’m the one who messed up, who stopped first. Stopped reaching out. Stopped responding. Started living three thousand miles away. (Let’s interrogate that last notion in a separate post.)

And it’s frustrating because, I probably think about you at some point each day every single day. A short flash or a deeper rumination. And then I think about when was the last time we texted and why don’t I just text you now. Like, just do it. Who cares if it’s past midnight their time?

But it’s like—now, all this time later—I’m holding this fuzzy floating shape of glowing colors in my mind, and I’m afraid to touch it with my mind-hand because that might do some kind of irreparable harm.

You mean a lot to me.

You are, our friendship is, meaningful to who I am as a person today. A big part of who I am. Thank you for that.

Pretty sure you’re the first person I ever IMd on AIM. (The kids today won’t understand.)

You’re definitely the only person who ever knew that I put my name on a list of fans of the dorky JRPG video game. It made you laugh very hard. I occasionally search to see if I can find that page of that website.

Remember that one time I had to slam on the brakes on 395 to avoid rear-ending the car in front of us? We could have been on our way to see the Caps play downtown at MCI.

We took a day trip to Philly one time. Ate at Pat’s (not Geno’s) outside on a picnic bench between the stand and the street. Went to the art museum.

I saw you at your graduation.

We saw the fireworks downtown.

I vaguely remember visiting you at your college, like I drove down there and back in the span of four hours. Back when I used to just up and go places for no good reason other than to just hang out.

I want to hear about all the things that have been going on in your life, all the places you’ve been, and tell you about all the things that have been going on in mine. To talk like how we were back then.

I don’t know anything about your partner. I never asked. I assume, hope, you’re still together. It makes me sad imagining you going through a process of separation.

You let me meet your parents one time, they were very nice. I hope they’re doing alright.

I hope you’re doing alright.

It makes me happy to imagine you are.

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What’s weird is that, I started writing this with one particular person in mind. Recounting specific anecdotes. And thought maybe if I removed those anecdotes the letter could apply to so many more people I’ve known in my life. But when I went to edit the details out, it just didn’t feel right. In my gut, if that particular person happened to come across this post, I wanted to make sure they knew it was for them. (But know it’s also meant for you.)