Creative Writing

Remembering

I look at the photo of us on my bedside cabinet, and wonder how long you’ve been gone, blame myself over and over and over again. Why me? Why you? What have I done to deserve this? Crying myself to sleep has become something of a nightly occurrence. The quietness of my bedroom sparks unpleasant thoughts in my head. Anyone else would be able to discard them, but that’s easier said than done for me. It’s all my fault. I want you back in my life, but the chances of that happening are probably next to none. Meeting you didn’t seem like yesterday, and I can’t help but wonder what my life would be like if you were still in it.

It’s unthinkable how we’ve ended up in this position. You told me you would hate to lose the friendship between us, I felt exactly the same, though I never told you. You loved me just like I loved you. A meet up at Costa soon became ‘back to Costa again’, though I never complained no matter how many times we went there. It was as if we were regulars. You were the only person with whom I enlisted my trust, thanks to a traumatic past. I met you after that, while I was still raw internally and you told me everything would be all right. I would do anything to see you again or talk to you and tell you how much I miss you, despite not being able to put it into words. You weren’t just a friend to me; you were like family.

Even though it’s been two years, I still picture us both sat next to each other on your sofa with nothing but the nearby lamps giving out light. Unlike anyone who would walk into a room and flick the switch for the ceiling light, you knew how to make surroundings feel cosy. I didn’t feel as though I was a guest, I felt like I lived with you. I felt content, like I wanted to swap places with your brother. Living with you, he’s definitely lucky.When people said to me last year “I can’t wait for the pandemic to be over as I haven’t seen [insert family member here] in [insert single figure here] months”, you instantly came into my head. I sit at my desk with my phone, rather than chucking it in a kitchen cupboard so I don’t get distracted. When it illuminates with a text message or incoming call, adrenaline kicks in, as I hope it’s you. But it’s not and I’m still waiting. Waiting for you to contact me. It’s the same with emails, too. My heart sinks when it’s another marketing email or an email from someone other than you. Days turn into weeks, which then turn into months. Your voice plays in my head like a broken record, though I’d rather your voice be in my head than something unpleasant. I wish we can rekindle; I’m sure you’d like to come back to Norwich and revisit the UEA. You still mean the world to me. You always have, and you always will.


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07/12/2021

About Author

Max Wrigley



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