pure thoughts

it's a dull tuesday night and you finally got off work. your brother's friend is over, playing video games on the living room tv. he asks you to watch him and you're flattered because that means he wants you to hang out with him. and he's sharing a part of himself with you. but it's not like it really matters, though, because it's not like you like him like that. right?

so you pack up your belongings from where you were on your bed and sit beside him on the couch. he scooched over specifically for you. now it's like you're obligated to sit there.

video games aren't really your thing, and your brother's best friend knows that, so he doesn't mind when you pull out a book. with heavy rain pattering against the large picture window and the nip in the air that was only heightened by the constant air conditioning, you pull a light knitted blanket over you.

his voice right next to yours is oddly comforting as you dive into your fantasy world. you read and read as he talks to your brother through his headset. his voice is so low, calm, and confident when it comes to the video game. it makes you feel--cozy...? you wonder why you don't invite yourself to watch him play games often.

Six months ago my friend that I’ve known since childhood committed suicide. Because it came out of nowhere, I never got the chance to grieve. As soon as I found out about his death, I had family drama to sort out and college was right around the corner. So I’m finally writing about my feelings and I’d like to share a piece of myself to this blog where I allow myself to be vulnerable. Here’s an excerpt:

All I could think about was his favorite memory of us. We sat on the swings at camp just before curfew because we were too young to go to the banquet. He never told me what we talked about that night. We must have been nine or ten. But I didn’t remember, and it broke me. A single tear fell down my cheek. 

How was it that I couldn’t remember his favorite memory of us? I had a handful of memories with him but the one of us on the swings wasn’t in there. How could I be this cruel to not know what he was talking about but acted like I did? Maybe it was the trauma I experienced while being in the church. From what I know about trauma, it can cause you to forget things. I once heard about a girl not having the faintest memory of going on vacation because of depression. Was my case like that? 

I would give anything to remember his favorite memory of us. I would sell my soul if it weren’t for the fact that I had no doubt he was in heaven. And I was determined to see him again.

I had one picture with him that I knew of. The only one I had was from my last appearance at my church’s winter retreat. It was him, me, and two other girls. One of them I wasn’t friends with anymore and the other was a girl I still really liked but life got ahead of us. I didn’t look good in that photo. But thinking about it, Beau was the only one who did. He was that way when it came to the camera because it loved him and his smile. He was so photogenic it was actually unfair. 

We were young then. We were all sixteen and stupid; raiding the snack bar, making fun of all the chaperones, and taking pictures on the ice. One of the girls brought their polaroid cameras and we were having the time of our lives wasting her cards. We took one where it was me and the girls, and Beau photobombed it. He was just a blur—all you could see was a cloud of his gray sweatshirt and jeans—but he was there.