By R.W Huynh
I saw you from across the platform, Waterloo station, low morning. I couldn’t stop staring at you from afar. I couldn’t tell you if I loved you the first moment I saw you, or if it was the second or third or fourth. But I remember the first moment I looked at you walking toward me and realized that somehow the rest of the world seemed to vanish when I was with you.
Most days I wish I never met you because then I could sleep normally at night and I wouldn’t have to walk around with the knowledge that there was someone like you that fatefully entered my life. Between memory and reality there are awkward discrepancies. I guess that’s just part of loving people: You have to give things up, even if it’s the one. Being with you never felt wrong. It’s the one thing I did right. You’re the one thing I did right.
Waiting is painful. Forgetting is painful. But not knowing which to do is the worst kind of suffering. It always shocked me when I realized that I wasn’t the only person in the world who thought and felt such strange and awful things.
Of course I’ll hurt you. Of course you’ll hurt me. Of course we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring, means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence.
I promised you that no matter how many worlds and miles apart, how long it’s been, or how different we become, that I would always write to you. We promised each other that we’ll never forget each other, or who we once were. How we loved each other, and cared for each other. When no one else in our lives would.
But I’ll make it work, someway somehow.