Chapter 2
Dear Nicky,
I’ve been meaning to write to you for weeks now, but every time I sit down to start, it’s like my brain freezes up. I tell myself I’ll do it tomorrow, or maybe the next day, and then suddenly it’s been a month. Anyway, here I am, finally. I’m writing this from the kitchen table. It’s early evening, and the light coming in through the window is that kind of faded gold that makes everything look better than it is. There’s a cup of coffee going cold beside me, as always. I can hear someone’s dog barking outside, and I don’t know why, but it makes me think of when we used to sit on the balcony and make up stories about people walking their dogs. Do you remember that? We were so judgemental.
I don’t know where to start, really. I guess I’ll tell you about the writing group. It’s strange. You know how I joined because I thought it would be good for me after what happened, like eating kale or doing yoga or whatever. I thought it would keep me disciplined, you know? But it’s not like that at all. Lately it’s been messy and inconsistent and sometimes really uncomfortable, but in a way that feels... necessary. I’ve been writing about you a lot lately. I think it helps. Anyway, there’s this one woman, Piper, who’s new. She’s interesting. Quiet, but not in a shy way, more like she’s thinking about things she’s not sure she wants to say out loud yet. I like people like that. They make you work for it. And she's... so hot.
How are you? Really, I mean. I know it’s not an easy question to answer in your situation. It feels ridiculous to even ask, but I want to know. I think about you a lot. More than you probably realise. Sometimes when I’m walking home, I’ll remember some stupid thing you said years ago, and it’ll make me laugh out loud, like a lunatic. People probably think I’m unhinged. Maybe I am. But you were always so good at that, at saying things that were both deeply insightful and completely absurd at the same time. I miss that. I miss you.
I’ve been trying to stay busy. I’m working more hours than I probably should. It’s good, though. Keeps me grounded, gives me structure. The writing helps too, when I can actually get myself to do it. But you know how that goes. Some days it’s like pulling teeth, and other days it feels like the words are just pouring out of me, like they’ve been there all along, waiting. Like I said, I’ve been writing about the past a lot. About us, about the nights we spent talking until morning, about the way everything felt so raw and open back then. It’s strange to think about how much has changed, and how much hasn’t.
Do you ever think about time? Not in the “oh, how time flies” kind of way, but in a deeper sense. Like, the way it stretches and folds, the way it’s so elastic and subjective. Sometimes I feel like the past is closer than the present, like it’s this heavy thing I’m always carrying around with me. And then other times, it’s like the past is this distant, blurry thing I can barely remember. It’s disorienting.
Anyway, I'm gonna stop rambling now. I want to hear about you. About your days, about what you’re reading or watching or thinking about. I don’t care if it’s mundane or sad or angry or hopeful. I just want to know. Is that hottie you mentioned last month (Lorna, I think) still in the picture? I’m dying to know if anything’s happening there, or if I should start plotting ways for you to run into someone new. I’ll try to visit soon, by the way, if my schedule stops kicking my ass. If not I'll try to call.
I’m running out of things to say, which feels impossible because there’s so much I want to tell you. But maybe that’s the problem. There’s too much, and it’s all tangled up in my head, and I don’t know where to start. I don’t know. I hope this letter finds you on a good day. I hope you know how much you’re loved, even from far away. And I hope you’ll write back, even if it’s just a few lines.
Take care of yourself, okay? And if you can’t, then at least try to let someone else take care of you. You deserve that much. You deserve so much more than that, actually. But I’ll settle for the bare minimum, for now.
Always, Alex