THE PEOPLE I STILL HAVE SOFTNESS FOR

Letter 017 NEW

Distance Is Doing a Lot of Work.

Maybe we’ve only managed to stay strangers because we’ve never had to look at each other.

I think about that sometimes.

Because from here, this is easy.

Well.

Easier.

There are miles between us.

Years.

Different lives.

Enough silence that eventually silence started feeling like the arrangement.

And distance is very good at protecting an arrangement.

It lets me remember what happened without having to remember your face while it happened.

It lets me be angry without watching your expression change.

It lets me imagine all the things I would say if I ever got the chance.

And it lets you do the same.

Distance is doing a lot of work.

Because I know us.

And I don't think we'd be nearly as good at this if we were standing in the same room.

I think I'd see you and immediately remember too much.

Not just the ending.

That's the problem.

I'd remember before.

I'd remember being young.

I'd remember laughing with you before either of us knew there would someday be something not to laugh about.

I'd remember what it felt like to know you before knowing you became complicated.

I'd remember the version of us that existed before either of us understood we could actually lose it.

And I think you would too.

Maybe we'd try to act normal.

That would probably last thirty seconds.

Maybe one of us would make a joke.

Probably because neither of us would know what else to do with our hands.

Maybe we'd say,

It's good to see you.

As if that sentence could possibly hold everything we'd actually mean.

And then I think we'd look at each other.

Really look.

That's where the whole thing falls apart.

Because I know if my face were in front of yours, something in you would break.

Something in me would too.

Not because everything would suddenly be okay.

Not because the years would disappear.

Not because I would forget what hurt.

And not because seeing each other again would mean we belonged in each other's lives again.

Maybe we don't.

I've learned that you can forgive someone without reopening the door.

You can love someone and still understand why they can't live where they used to live in your life.

You can miss someone without turning missing them into instructions.

But there are some people you never manage to turn into nothing.

You're one of mine.

I've tried anger.

Anger helped.

For a while.

It gave me somewhere to put the questions you weren't around to answer.

I've tried indifference too.

I wasn't particularly convincing.

Eventually I stopped trying to turn what happened between us into one clean emotion.

I'm angry.

I'm sad.

I'm grateful.

I'm disappointed.

I miss you sometimes.

I remember things that still make me laugh.

There are things I would forgive immediately.

There are things I would still need you to explain.

Apparently all of those things can live in the same place.

That's what nobody tells you about losing someone who existed in your life before the relationship did.

You don't just lose the person you loved.

You lose someone who remembers you from before you became the person everyone else knows.

There are versions of me you knew that I can't introduce anyone to now.

They can only meet her through stories.

You don't need the stories.

You were there.

Maybe that's part of why I've never been able to make you a stranger in my head, even though we've gotten remarkably good at being strangers everywhere else.

We built a wall.

But geography has been doing most of the heavy lifting.

Miles can hold a lot.

Pride.

Anger.

Silence.

Unsent messages.

Entire years.

What I don't know is whether they could hold any of it if you were standing three feet away.

Maybe nothing would happen.

Maybe we'd surprise ourselves.

Maybe we'd say hello, make polite conversation, and walk away.

But I don't believe that.

I think one of us would crack first.

And I don't even know what I'd want to happen after that.

That's the strange part.

I don't need you back to know I'd still want to hug you.

I don't need another beginning.

I don't need to rewrite the ending.

I don't need what happened to become okay.

Maybe all would be forgiven.

Maybe not all at once.

Maybe forgiveness isn't even the right word.

Maybe there are just some people whose faces remind your heart of something your brain spent years organizing into neat little boxes.

And maybe that's why we've been able to leave those boxes closed.

Neither of us has had to stand in front of the other one and open them.

So yes.

We've gotten very good at this.

Different places.

Different lives.

No calls.

No explanations.

No accidental eye contact.

No finding out whether all this distance has actually changed anything—or has simply kept us from testing it.

Maybe we’ve only managed to stay strangers because we’ve never had to look at each other.

And maybe that's okay.

But if we ever do—

I have a feeling we're going to discover

distance was doing a lot more work than either of us realized.