It has been a while since we last talked. We both always seem to be more preoccupied with ourselves and our things than we are with finding out how each of us is doing. How have you been? Fine? Me too. We both know that is a lie. I will go first. I found what I was looking for in this place of bright lights and beautiful fantasies. Like all things we think we want, I did not know what that looked like and I probably should not have wanted “it”, the proverbial it, so much. Those fantasies I never told you about that seemed so far away, the ones that came true, are futile and bland now. I woke up. I did not expect to, but I did, feeling like I had been run over by a train. Where I am now feels like a dream and I am scared to go to sleep, for fear that if I wake up, I will be back to being sad and lonely, back to that dreary place where dreams die. That is the nightmare, is it not? Being afraid to fall asleep? But, I wake up, and I am still here. Where are you? Did you find what you are looking for? You never do tell me that. You never even tell me how you are doing. At least let me know how you are doing, even if I have found ways to fill up the emptiness. It would be lovely if you were part of that, it would be so lovely to have you once again as a distraction, all sunlight and teeth and sexiness.
I woke up. I did not want to, but I did. I am still repeating myself, even after the drugs have worn off. They thought I was just drunk. I knew better. You knew better. I went back home, weak, dirty and sweaty, avoiding the accusing stares of passersby. We laughed about it with my friends and my cousins. Mum was not so amused. I am sure she prayed on her knees the following day, as opposed to sitting on the high-backed chair at the dinner table, the one near the door, in the dead cold and still quiet morning. Papa shrugged his shoulders resignedly as if to ask, “When will you grow up?” Speaking of growing up, how did you celebrate your birthday? Did you spend it with your family like you had said you would have wanted to, or did you go all ratchet at the club? I wanted to see that, you letting yourself go, free of expectations and the fear that you will not be liked. I like you, still. I may not love you any more. It has been so long since I felt that emotion. The last time was with you, and look how that turned out. Do you think of me too, Lucy? I hope not. You would get jealous. I am doing well without you. I should not but I am. I feel guilty for moving on, for brushing you off so easily.
I wish I could believe those words I have just written, of how fine I am without you. But, I will not let you see me cry. I have cried for you enough. I have cried for you more than you have cried for yourself. Have you stopped crying? I hope you have because I have. You are so ugly when you cry, uglier than me. I do not have much to say today, I do not know if the words will come back and let me shine them on you. I used to write for you. Remember, those nothings that inflated me so, that got you infatuated? What more can I say, Lucy? Your silence is telling. I will not say goodbye. Why should I? I always get what I want. Eventually. And I will get you back. Even if it kills me. I have to go now. She is waiting for me. She does all the things to me, for me, that I never got to see you do. She is not as anything as you, but I can work with that until you come back. Let me go and practise for you, Lucy.