JackSGreyson Says

I miss you, my friend.

And how weird to be saying this now–more than a year after you’ve left, thousands of miles away–more to your shadow than your face.

I guess I thought–I assumed, that is–that you’d be coming back. And you might very well do so, but I never thought there was a possibility that you wouldn’t. That you wouldn’t want to.

Which speaks more of how you’ve changed.

And how I haven’t.

Even if–when, no, if–you come back, what we had, what we might have, will never be the same.

—

We talk. Or, rather, we message each other. Sporadically.

Part of the reason why I was so thrown off guard.

Over a decade of being each other’s shoulder to cry on, of baring our vulnerabilities to each other, that we’ve fallen into patterns that miss the entire story.

You fell in love–with the land and the people and the work, which you had for months entrusted your… less than stellar opinions on… but the more your grew to love it, the more it made you happy, the less I heard about it.

And so my picture is only half formed, a grueling climb up but no final, breathtaking view at the summit. I saw only your stress and strain and none of the smiles that made it worth it.

I only know the you from a year ago, not who you are now.

—

Even when you were here, when we were together, we were apart.

Instead of thousands of miles, it was hundreds, and we only saw each other rarely.

But still. That was enough.

Because it was as if, whenever we reunited, the only things that had changed between us were the stories we could tell each other.

And it was enough, every time, to renew our friendship.

I never believed in soulmates, I have more than enough family to spare, but it seemed to me that we matched. Had perhaps formed ourselves to match, subconsciously, as we grew up and learned together.

You’ve grown without me, far far away, and I don’t know if our shapes still correspond.

—

Perhaps I’m being over dramatic.

I left, too, for a year. Grew into my own–or so people say–though really it just felt like a chance to be a better, brighter me with a deadline if I didn’t like it.

And immediately after I came back, you left, too. Not as long, but much farther, and I know you discovered a version of yourself as well.

But we wrote letters to each other, digital as they were, made time when neither of us had much to see each other’s faces, hear each other’s voices.

But this time… is this what we’re reduced to without our safety net of technology?

—

I’m being silly, I know.

I’m so happy for you, so proud. So overjoyed that you’ve found yourself even if it’s not a version of you that I’ve met.

But I miss you, and they are not mutually exclusive.

I’m just feeling homesick for you.

If I don’t say anything–not out loud, not where anyone can hear.

If I don’t write it down–don’t leave proof, no records, no trace.

If I don’t admit it happened, then did it really?

But just asking that means something existed to be asked about. To be willfully forgotten and thrown into the oblivion.

It’s not a big deal, the fuss makes it worse than it is, and yet some part of me still wants it to be buried.

///

It’s stupid. Silly. Not even a second, just the briefest of moments.

God, why am I even still thinking about it? Hours after it happened. Still blushing and running hands through my hair, nervous and coy and bewildered.

Flustered.

He winked at me, mouth curved into a sideways smile.

It was aimed at me. For me, an inside joke for the two of us. Just a small comment given a touch of humor and a delicate layer of secrecy.

It didn’t mean anything.

My heart is still fluttering.

///

Here’s the thing: he’s not the most handsome guy I’ve ever seen.

I’ve seen more classically beautiful men, met far smoother charmers. He’s not even my most handsome friend. He’s just one of the guys who, yes, has very nice eyes and a way of making me laugh.

And, I mean, I’ve thought about it before. When I first joined the group, learning as much as I can about the members as I tried to find a space for myself… he helped with that, it’s true… and I know that, if he has a type, then I’m not far from it.

But still!

It’s been months–over a year–why now?

Why him?

Why me?

///

(You were gone for two weeks, and it both did and didn’t seem so long. Weekends punctuated by hanging out with the guys replaced by keeping track of drunken bachelorettes and high strung actors and slightly ill relatives.

You spotted him, once, driving in the opposite direction–head unconsciously, unwillingly, turning to watch him go by.

You missed them all, of course, through it wasn’t very long.

Maybe you missed him the most.)

~

A/N: I KNOW I SHOULD HAVE BEEN DOING EXTERNALITY! AAAAAHHHHH BUT I DIDN’T HAVE VERY LONG AND ALSO I HAVE TO DO STUFF TOMORROW STARTING IN THE MORNING SO I WON’T HAVE MUCH TIME THEN EITHER. AAAAAAHHHHH