The Symphony of us

In the symphony of fifth-grade meetings, you and I were the overture, our eyes composing a melody of smiles as we shared the same desk. We were given a room plan, and this room plan became our shared manuscript where you guided my pen to the right room, marking not just the space but the beginning of an inseparable bond.

We continued to sit next to each other for three years. Every time we would create a new seating plan, I would write your name on my piece of paper for the person I wanted to sit with. And you did too. We talked, we drew stupid little doodles, we met up and baked pancakes, made flower crowns, and laughed until our ribs felt tough. And even though there were times we had other friends, we always came back for each other.

At least I thought so. But then, the music changed. Your name vanished from my seating plan, and the laughter ceased to echo in our shared space. You started caring more about what other people think than about me.

We grew apart, you say now, when someone asks you about me. I say, you left me.

I continued writing to you for a couple of years; I didn’t want to let our friendship die, but I was getting tired. Tired of you ignoring me, tired of you making up a facade for the people around you so they would like you, when I already did, without your facade.

We once sat next to each other on the bus, and I played you this song with the title “find me.” You said, you don’t like sad songs. I said, don’t worry it’s not if you listen to the end. You didn’t understand that I wanted you to find me, to come back to me as your best friend.

We got different courses in school and different friend groups, different hair, and different glasses. I still tried to stay in touch, along with you about your holidays and your hobbies, hoping we’d reconnect.

When I look at you, all I see is light. In a room full of people, you shine the brightest. All I can think about is: I could recognize your laughter a mile away. I miss the smell of your hair; it lingers like the delicate notes of a favorite melody. You’re so magnetic; it’s actually painful.

I try to stop myself from obsessing about you, but I find myself near you, watching, hiding in plain sight.

I wonder what you feel when my name comes up in a conversation. Do you get a yearning feeling in your stomach too?

You grew your hair out; you go to parties now. For me, it looks like you’re still acting, putting up a facade.

In the hallway, our eyes meet, and I see you smile, the same smile you had all those years before but at the same time not at all.

It’s crazy how one person can go from knowing all your darkest secrets and fears to one annual message: Happy Birthday (but what I really mean is please don’t forget about me.)