A year later, you knocked on my door.

For Chapter One, read Hang gliding, that was what we were going to do for your birthday.

You know what they say about grief, that it comes in waves. There will be some days when you would feel so incredibly good about things, like whatever happened to break you into a million pieces is water under the bridge, the sun is out and the changing of the seasons has finally taken place. But just when you feel that way, some thing (or maybe nothing at all) would happen that would transport you back into your initial state of disbelief and utter devastation.

For me, whenever I felt grief over your departure, I am laying in bed listening to All I Want by Kodaline on a loop. That was what I deeply believed that I wanted — all I want is nothing more than to hear you knocking at my door.

I don’t know what I believed in less — that my dog would someday learn not to bark at pigeons or that that line in that song would one day become reality.

Last night, you knocked on my door.

Cyrus barked like the good guard dog that he is, dashing towards the door with intense ferocity. I followed and looked into the peephole holding him back, and there you were. You wore the same shirt, the same jacket, the same pair of grey jeans, and the same minimal slippers. A different cap. You looked the same, except that your hair was longer. And you smelt different.

But there you were. It was unmistakable; it was you. A year later.

I opened my door trying to make sense of it all.

The last time I saw you, we were exchanging an innocent goodbye hug as you packed to leave for a short trip. I came home to an empty apartment filled with broken promises and a handwritten letter from you. You said that you will not be returning from your short trip.

All I want is nothing more than to hear you knocking at my door

“Hey.”

“Hey. I am here for a day and wanted to see how you are doing.”

I invited you in. After all, this was once your place too. You stepped in carefully and remarked at how foreign the apartment feels to you. I calmly sighed and gave myself a silent congratulation on the job well done in claiming my space back after you left.

There is a coloring poster of San Francisco hung up on my wall where every guest of mine contributes to when they pay a visit. I considered asking you to color in, but quickly decided against it. I wasn’t about to allow you to once again leave something in my space and then take off.

Perhaps I have learnt my lesson. Perhaps I have learnt to protect my heart from you.

But if you loved me, why did you leave me?

You sat on my armchair, politely giving me the distance I needed as I attempted to recover from the realization that you’re here; I have your presence in my room. That was when you said it. The words I’ve been waiting for. The words that I never dreamt that I’d hear in a million years. The ones that took away the burden of me bearing any false belief that I created our demise — that it was me and my entire being of unworthiness that had caused you to pack up and leave.

“I am sorry. I am sorry for the way I left.”

I tilted my head ever so slightly and gave you a gentle smile in response.

“I appreciate it.” I whispered softly, knowing that I was too choked up to be capable of a louder volume.

We spent another hour talking. Catching up. Your mannerisms were the same, albeit your way of life different. You explained your new lifestyle and beliefs, and delicately laughed embarrassedly each time you realized how it all must sound to me. A far cry from who you were before.

Because it was me. I knew you then, and I know you now.

“I am not surprised.”

I laughed heartily with you, teasing you for your spirituality, and for how you still told your interesting stories… uninterestingly. But that can never be a fault of yours. To me, it is and will always be endearing.

When you said your last goodbye, I died a little bit inside.

March 28, 2017

Time passes. Life expands and unfolds in unexpected ways. I am full of gratitude today that that heart wrenching memory no longer remains as what I would remember our last goodbye to be.

A year later, our last goodbye was filled with love and forgiveness. I am hopeful for what the future holds for you and I, for even though we will never be together again, we were a huge part of each other discovering our paths to becoming who we truly need to be.

I knew you then. I know you now. And I will always know you.