We are More

The magician takes the ordinary something and makes it do something extraordinary. Now you’re looking for the secret… but you won’t find it, because, of course, you’re not really looking. You don’t really want to know. You want to be fooled.

1995: I start school, too. But not in yours. To make things worse, I go to school in the morning; you go in the afternoon. We only have the weekends to play.

1996: Summer comes. My brother teaches us how to ride a bike. You don’t have one yet. I let you use mine while I run alongside you, out of breath, till we swap. You can’t really run, though, I don’t know why.

1997: The boys in the neighborhood make fun of you because you have a ´girlfriend´. You look embarrassed. I don’t play with you for a whole week. 

1998: Your parents are away for a whole month. You practically live with us. Your sisters are happy you’re gone. I’m so much happier you’re here. But you can’t shut up about some Power Rangers or something. 

1999: I turn 10. An earthquake tears down half the city. You move away. We help your family unpack in the new apartment. I try to carry boxes upstairs like everyone else to the fourth floor: your new home. Too high up. I trip and fall and break my leg. I wail with pain. Mom blames it on my leg. Then you start wailing, too. Still they don’t get it. But you do. And I do. Much like the city, our urban realm has just come crashing down.

2000: I start middle school. I see you some weekends. I have a new best friend. 

2001: When your mom calls mine, you don’t ask to talk to me. I forget to ask for you, too.

2002: You’re in high school. Holy shit, right? We see each other on holidays. 

2003: When we come over for dinner, you’re out with your friends. When you come over, I’m out with my study group. I am too in high school. I know, I’ve never been this cool before. I don’t even think about how cool you must’ve turned out to be. 

2004: I don’t see you at all.

2005: I don’t see you at all. 

2006: I see you, every day. Your dad opens up a store next to my high school. You’re taking a gap year - so you help him out. Well, he’s rarely there. You run the damn place. 

2006: I see you everyday and it’s like nothing’s changed. I take my books to the store so we can ´hang out´ while I study. So we can share the same air – is more like it. I help out so you could finish early. You call my mom to let her know I’m with you and you’ll walk me home. You’re still the thoughtful one. I fall for you, but I have big plans for me: in six months I’m leaving the city behind. I need to not fall for you. 

2006: You fall for me, too. You ask me out. I say no. I say it’ll hurt the friendship. You know me better. You know that I know it’ll hurt me. You accept it anyways. Then you ask some other girl out who says yes.

2006: I fall deeper. I swallow all the pride a 17 year old has and ask you out to be ´my´ boyfriend instead. You smile. Then you say no.

2007: You come to my graduation. You say you’re ready whenever, wherever. I’m 18 and my pride is fairly worth more than all else. I pack my bags and leave the city.

2008: We’re both home for the summer. School’s out. We go ride out bikes in an island nearby and soak the sun till sunset. We hang out, talk about classes and exams and books and dorm rooms. We never talk of new people. 

2009: You stay in your school the whole summer. I get my heart broken for the first time.

2010: I leave the country for a semester, find a land whose language is a complete stranger. I find a land where no one looks like me in the slightest. I feel home. You don’t write anymore.

2011: I come back. Nothing feels familiar anymore. I self diagnose a case of wanderlust. I prescribe finding myself a job ten thousand kilometers away. I leave you behind with everyone else. You come to the airport to see my off while my dad refuses to. 

2012: I’m always another continent away yet you still get the odd postcard from here and there. Enough to know I’m all right; not nearly enough to pin point my whereabouts on a map. 

2013: I call a tropical island home. Your mom calls me up to say everyone misses me. She says you miss me. She says you want to come visit me. You don’t mention a word of it when I call you.

2014: Once again I move across continents: I am closer now. You could find me at an airport two hours away from you. You are the one who moves away ten thousand kilometers this time. I fly back the house I grew up in for my quarter of a century old party. You phone exactly at midnight and cry into the phone, “I wish I were with you.” I wish so, too.

2015: You’re silent.

2016: I’m silent.

2017: We’re getting so good at this silence thing.

2018: Your dad leaves us. We’re there side by side. I’m the shoulder you need. Three days later, I fly away; so do you. The next day you turn 30, all by yourself. 

2019: You write me letters again. You ask why, not once, not twice. You ask how we could get it so wrong for so long when it’s so right. You tell me to meet you on the other end of the world or wait for your plane to arrive. You say it is now: our time is now. I don’t write back. 

E.S.