i missed you today. i missed you for all the reasons you’d want me to miss you, and none of the reasons not.

maybe it’s because somebody mentioned the night we met. or maybe it was just the shins on the radio. but i remembered you standing on the stairs and calling me beautiful. you could have said that to every girl that stood on that step, but it doesn’t matter because you said it to me. when i watched you walk away that night i wondered if i was meant to follow.

then every memory ruptured like the body of a pill and my mouth tasted sweet again. remembering a time when you didn’t care that i called at two in the morning, because my knee was bleeding, and my palm, and i was walking through a london park just itching to speak. when i called you drunk and foolish and you stuttered at the end of the phone. when i didn’t invite you to the ball, then spent the night missing you.

i don’t know what it means to miss you after two years. i don’t know why i miss you more than most. but i think the hook that got me here was that somewhere beneath those pussy-soft doe-brown eyes you knew what it was to be alone. everything about you was punk but your eyes.

somewhere along the line i got too caught up in the details. the kick in my gut when i told you i’d done something as you walked through the door, & the first place you looked was my wrists. the feeling of your scars against my kiss. the number of girls who’ve been between your legs. it’s not for me to decide.

you weren’t the first who wrote. the first i loved. the first who hurt. you weren’t the first to lick my wounds, to fuck me soft and senseless, to kiss me at midnight. but you were the first time i took a chance. stood bold, flailing and naked calling you on your doorstep.

you understand the balance between nostalgia and regret. you understand that just because you’re searching the horizon for ships that have sailed and sunk, doesn’t mean you’re combing the beach for a shipwreck. you might just sit there with a palahniuk novel, and watch the sun set.

you told me fairytales and read me books in bed. you cooked me endless meals, held hours of actual real conversation. you noticed the song lyrics the same time i did, commented on them before i could. you knew exactly when i needed tea. you understood my taste in music, my taste in film, my taste in books. when i needed a moment alone, & when i wanted you to come with me and watch the stars. you were the first and last person i loved who i hadn’t met on the internet. you introduced me to your family of friends. you were romantic, and you cared. even when it didn’t come naturally. even when it was awkward. even when it was hard.

i remember times during the whirlwind of mentally sick haze when it stopped to ask me “why are you doing this? this could be everything that you have ever wanted. why are you doing this?”. but there are parts of me that you never understood. these things. these wonderful things. they won’t be considered remarkable to most. in fact they may be taken for granted. but to me they were shiny. new. i’d never had them in a friend, let alone in you. and there’s still a faltering honesty in your behaviour i haven’t had since. i felt safe in it. the most unstable i’ve ever been, and i felt safe.

and as i sealed my thanks but no thanks to the university of bristol that second thought punched me in the stomach with a sick sparkly whirl of romanticism, rainbows, and regret.

but then i remembered the contempt you could hold for me in those deep, brown eyes. that i matter more, now that i’m gone. and i forgot.

i walked away.