A Series of Misunderstandings
Bozhi-i-i. A deep boy’s voice that has just passed the weird puberty transformation phase echoes from my street. My mom’s afternoon nap is interrupted. I am rushing towards the window to make the shush sign before opening it. It’s Mitko. He is with Lyubcho and Dancho. They are calling me to play outside.
When I was a kid, there was a long period without a doorbell in my house. There was no special reason behind this- simply none of my family members remembered to buy one. My neighborhood friends had to contact me somehow and since phones weren’t a thing, screaming was the way to go. My name was filling the surroundings almost every day during the summers of my childhood.
“Your Romeos are waiting for you,” my mom used to say when she was not grumpy about being woken up. I was Juliet and the boys were Romeos. There was a similarity between the romantic balcony scenes in Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet” and me shushing my friends from the top floor of my house. Except for a few typical child’s attempts to fall in love, without actually being in love, I never thought of the boys romantically. Mitko, Lyubcho, and Dancho were my brothers. Actually, all of the children living three streets apart were family. We were a gang of noisy happiness. We would go out in the morning, have lunch only after long negotiations with our parents, and play until it was bedtime. Within this community that, depending on the period, consisted of ten to fifteen little bodies, the four of us were inseparable. Sometimes, I got mocked for spending too much time among boys. I really didn’t care. I loved barbies and pink was my favorite color, but that didn’t prevent me from being an expert in football and cards.
In the mini assemble we had with the boys, Lyubcho and I would always pair, no matter whether it was about games or quarrels. Not that we loved the rest less- we just had similar interests and opinions. Lyubcho was a cute kid- tall, slim, flap-eared with green-eyes and thick dark hair. He was full of energy and always eager to help me- if there was a garden to be cleaned or firewood to be stored, Lyubcho was the first to turn up. We also had the same love for music and we would spend hours singing, dancing, or just talking about our favorite performers. We shared dreams and worries and that persisted for a long time.
Years went by. The four of us lived through many August nights counting falling stars, eating plums and cherries on top of garages, laughing, and crying. We grew up and the colorful world of our childhood was replaced with bars and infinite numbers of strolls in the center of Sliven, our town. As much as we tried to remain united, boredom inevitably appeared and it brought a sense of distance.
After many changes, it was no longer the four of us- there were lovers, new friends, and different dreams. None of this was bad. It’s how life works. Yet, our desire to break free was too aggressive, and spending time together became a routine thing. There came a moment when Lyubcho grew apart. He was drawn back by all these shifts. In the beginning, he stopped communicating with Mitko and Dancho. As usual, the two of us tried to stick together. One day, during my senior year in high school, after a row and tens of text messages, our friendship was also put on pause.
Lyubcho went to study in England. I was accepted at the American University in Bulgaria and I moved to Blagoevgrad. I began a journey as sweet as the cherries I ate on garages. The new life made me bloom. Still, although I was occupied with classes, new friendships, and interesting events, my mind always drifted to the thought of Lyubcho. I wondered what he was doing in England and whether he was happy. My pride was still hurt, though, and I had no intention to contact him first.
Spring came and a year had passed since Lyubcho and I had last talked. I was in my hometown for the break and I was about to return to my university for the rest of the semester. While waiting at the station in Sliven, an old friend of mine, Alexander, approached me. We’ve known each other since the language school we attended. I always felt inspired after talking with him because he knew a lot and had a profound insight into the world. The beard he had recently grown added to his philosophical being. It turned out we were waiting for the same bus. We sat next to each other and talked throughout the whole journey. Alexander knew Lyubcho and was very surprised to hear we were no longer on good terms after such a long friendship. With his usual zenish tone, he started persuading me that we had to reconcile:
“Zhani (most of the people from the language school were calling me like that), you see, it’s not that people don’t love each other enough, it’s all about a series of misunderstandings in their communication.”
These words stuck in my head but I did nothing straight away. A few days passed after I talked with Alexander and I started having some repetitive nightmares. One day, I decided that all we had was more important than pride and hurt feelings. I looked up his name on Messenger and sent him that text I should have sent a long time ago: “How are you?”. He was happy. I was happy. We quickly caught up on experiences and gossip, and we haven’t parted since.
From the distance of time, I can now hardly remember what were the exact events that led to a one-year separation. What I clearly recall is the year.
A series of misunderstandings, not the lack of love- if we think about love as a constant truth, whatever ugly words might appear, we will know that they are simply an accumulation of sorrows. Sorrows we probably didn’t notice or understand. I matured a lot since Alexander’s words. The bitterness right after a quarrel is the same. What’s different is that I don’t let it invade my perception of the person in front of me. After all, we are two human beings who love each other.
###
Bozhana Marinova studies Journalism and Mass Communication at the American University in Bulgaria. She loves her friends.
