I wanted to start this letter by asking how you are doing, but I know it has no point. I know you’re fine anyway, although I cannot describe how fine you are because I’ve never been to heaven and I have no idea what being fine up there feels like.
Me, on the other side — I’m fine. Splendid, even. I am happy, more than I could ever imagine.
I am writing this letter to you because I cannot seem to contain the overflowing happiness and ardor flaming inside of me, and I want to share this feeling with you. I want you to know that — at last — I’ve walked through the cruelty of grief and sorrow; that I’ve passed the most difficult pit of my life.
When you were still alive, I’ve told you million times that my life had altered its center point to wherever you stood. I grew dependently and hopelessly in love with you, which caused me to feel so much pain when you took your last breath in that goddamn hospital’s bed — I was in the waiting room cursing God for not accepting my endless prayers.
But throughout the months of trying to cope with the pain, I also have learnt a lot of things. I went through what felt like thousands phases of grief in a relatively short amount of time. Perhaps, that’s basically why I always tell people that losing you is a pure miracle.
Now, darling, I want you to know that going through the months without you was not as easy as people thought. Falling in love with someone new was even harder.
When I disclosed myself to him, I told a lot of things about you. Things I could never tell someone else. Things I preferred to hold back and release at nights alongside the tears and excruciating screams. Things I wanted to keep to myself, or at least, to you when I send you my prayers. But at some point, I managed to pour them down to the glass he was offering with his bare, soft hands.
When he said he wanted to help me heal myself, I still told him about you. I told him I loved you, I still love you, and that I will always be loving you no matter what happen. I told him you already have a specific, comfortable space inside my heart, and that no one would ever be able to remove that certain room from me. I told him you were — still are, will always be — the love of my life.
And he did not mind.
When I finally said okay; when I finally said I wanted to try, he gave me a hug. The first ever loving hug I received after you were gone. He kissed my forehead and whispered, “Thank you.” I was still feeling overwhelmed that I did not mind asking what he was thankful for.
The next day, we went to your grave. We prayed in silence. I remember my heart telling you that I was sorry for trying to move on this quick, for deciding to try a new relationship, but I also remember telling you please, allow me to be happy. Allow me to be happy with him. You know him — he’s your dearest friend. You trust him, don’t you, baby?
That night, he told me about his prayers.
I was in his arms — trying to sleep after months of struggling to — when he said, “I asked him for permission.”
He was staring at me — deeply through my eyes like no one could but you — as his fingers dragged itself to caress the strands of my hair.
“Earlier today at the grave. I prayed to God and sent him my prayers,” he said. “And in my prayers, I asked for permission.”
“What do you mean?”
“I asked him to allow me to love you. I am here not to replace his position; I would never do that. I am here to protect you; to love you; to bring back that smile in your face. I asked him to allow me to become the person who drags you up when you fall back. I asked him to give me courage so I can give you some, too.”
At that moment, my doubts, my fear, my longing — everything that tied me back to the thought of you has finally loosened its grip.
I still think of you now and then. I still experience nightmares — flashbacks of seeing you laying in pain with traces of blood all over your body; whispers of I love you and I miss you that you could only reply with a flinch and, sometimes, with tears running down your cheeks because you were in a state of coma; fingers that could no longer interlace mine as I held you for the very last time.
I still dream of you now and then. I still walk past that coffee shop where we first dated and could not hold my tears from falling. I still see a Tiger Mercedes-Benz down the street and thought of the memories we had in the very same car (only that now the car’s parts have been thrown to somewhere I don’t want to know). I still use the sweater you left in my room when I found it difficult to fall asleep.
And when the time gets very hard, when the memories jumble and force themselves to splash out of my head, I run to him. I told him I miss you. I told him I want to see you. I told him I cannot do this any longer, told him I cannot control myself, I’m sorry, I’m in pain. Help.
He helps. He’s always there, baby. He’s always there to embrace not only my body but also my soul when I dream of you and cry in my sleep. He’s always there to drive me to your grave whenever I want to feel your presence beside me. He’s always there to tell me it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. I’m here. He’s here too, with us.
He’s always there to remind me that life goes on. That even when you, the love of my life, returns to where you belong — I should still feel alive. And through this letter, I want you to know:
I do feel alive.
I am even living well, delighted, and blessed.
The fact that I am leaning on to someone new does not imply that you’re forgotten, because darling: I loved you, I still love you, and I will always be loving you. No matter what happen, you are still the love of my life.
So don’t you worry, because I am okay. I am happy. I have let the pain go, because I have finally learned how to embrace loss and happiness all at the same time.
Thank you — for stopping by to my life.
I’ll see you when it’s time.