I would like to contact you, but I know I can’t.
I have been here before, and I always gave in first. Breaking the silence, begging for attention and fighting to keep it going.
Not this time.
You told me you want some time, so time you shall get.
I will not tell you about the thoughts that warm me at night in my cold room as winter arrived suddenly with full force, even though it’s supposed to be late autumn. I will not tell you how I awake to the gale knocking on my window, the rain pattering against the pane lulling me between sleep and consciousness. I will not tell you how I felt when after a year of storing my books in the drawers of the divan, I was finally able to stand them up proudly on a proper shelf, and sort them thematically, alphabetically, any way I wanted. I will not tell you how every glass of wine I drink I imagine what it would taste from your lips.
And I will not tell you how I felt when my mother called this afternoon to tell me that my aunt has cancer, advanced beyond hope even for an operation. I will not tell you how I need a hug; a reassurance that not everything in this life ends the same way – falling apart, disappearing, ceasing to exist -; that I have someone to hold on to, to get me through, or just there, for me.
I will not tell you how your timings to take some time off suck. When you want time for yourself, because life became too much, or you have other things going on that need your attention more, and I end up being put on pause, shoved on the shelf, pushed down to the bottom of your to-do list, that’s when things happen, when things start to get tough or fall apart in my life. It’s not your fault, but neither is it mine.
And, I could really do with a hug about right now.
I know, even if you didn’t cut me out, we would not be able to hug. But I could tell you.
I could tell you, and you could tell me to chin up, to be there for my mother, to hope that my flight in three weeks time is not too late.
This time though… I will not tell you. I don’t want to make you feel guilty or obliged to answer, and I don’t want to burden you with unnecessary bad news, even if it doesn’t really concern you. But I don’t want to resent you either for disappearing, again, just when I would need you; for saying it’s unfair, and choosing to pause/end it, leaving me with nothing. You have the boys, you know. Isn’t that why we can’t be, after all? I have nothing.
And I don’t want to resent myself either, for even in my time of need I am putting someone else’s needs first.
Hence, another unsent letter. I am good at writing those.