February 14th

A Story by AriV

A love letter of sorts.

February 14th

To my dear friend,

I’ve been thinking of you a lot lately, which I know is nothing new. I can hear you in my head right now, ‘Silly Aaron, he’s getting old trying to reminiscence on the past.’ Yes, you are right, I’m almost thirty, and I find that as the day gets closer and closer, I keep on replaying my life, the last ten years of it anyways, trying to find some sort of sense or meaning to the whole thing. What have I done? I ask myself philosophically every once in a while. Yes, I feel like I’ve turned into you. You see, what it does to me, our friendship? It makes me half-decent, I’m afraid. And the thing is I haven’t done much these last ten years, nothing important anyways, not like you. I haven’t set out to change the world, and even now that notion seems a little too ideological for my taste. Still, though, I haven’t made any real difference, not anywhere or with anyone. I’ve had good moments, lived to tell some exciting and erotic stories of all-nighters turned wrong, occasional flings, alcohol (too much alcohol) and ah, yes the cigarettes. At the time, all of those things excited me, made me think that I was ‘living it up’ or is it ‘living the life?’ I forget which expression fits best to describe my “phase.” Now, I find myself alone, in a New York City apartment, a big urban bachelor pad that I would have killed to have owned ten years ago. I sit here filled with melancholic notions, spending lonely days and nights, and think about the empty pit in my stomach and the numerous unused phone numbers listed in my pathetic cell phone that sits mocking me on the bedside table, untouched for the most part. The faces that were once significant to me, at some point in my life, anyways, are now all blurred together, and when I try to think of the name of so-and-so or what’s-her-face, I succeed only in getting a massive headache.

And, as usual, there’s always you, Scar. Unforgettable Scar. My best friend and soul mate. I’m sorry if that’s a bit scary for you to read, I’m afraid I’m going to go all out on this letter (yes, I’m actually writing a letter, miracles do exist) and try being honest for a change, see how it works out.

The thing is, Scar, that you’ve seen me at my best (on rare occasions) but you have also seen me at my very worse worst. I cringe thinking of all the things you had to put up with, and I would like to officially apologize for EVERYTHING and thank you for hanging in there, for seeing something in me that I couldn’t see myself. I’m sorry I never told you before. Of these last ten years, the best moments, the ones I remember with most fondness and a nostalgic happiness, are the moments spent with you, talking on the phone until dawn, having our political discussions and disagreements, sitting under a big oak tree at our park, having picnics and talking, arguing, and laughing, laughing lots.

I miss you so much. I hope you’re still reading this and haven’t given up, take all the time you need to vomit at the corny lines that are coming out of my pen and into this piece of paper, and continue, there’s more to come.

Ever since I moved to the city I’ve had a sort of feeling of renewal and a sense that I would start my life over, do things differently this time around. I’ve met new people, hung out with nice enough girls, but every time it’s the same thing. No one quite compares to you. It’s a curse, really, to have every date ruined because for some reason or other, your name always comes up, either in conversation or in the back of my head thinking, ‘Scar wouldn’t approve of her,’ or ‘She’s got no sense of humor, not like Scar.’ So, you see, you’ve cursed me. I can’t enjoy myself like I used to. Little things remind me of you as well, it’s very annoying. When I walk past a Starbuck’s (there’s so many of them, WHY are there so many of them here?) I’m reminded of your obsessive love for coffee. When I go to the movies I miss you commenting ostentatiously on the side, like a cynical movie critic. I’ve even began going into small book shops like the ones you loved, just because I feel like I’ll run into you when I walk in, find you with your back to me, picking up book after book, leafing through the pages, the smell of the old pages filling your nostrils, and smiling, in that sentimental way you often used.

But you are never there, so I walk away, sulking out of there, my head hanging low, hands in my pockets, thinking of you and missing you a little bit more than before. Today it has hit me harder than any other day. Walking around the city, every stupid shop has been decorated with the “Happy Valentine’s Day” balloons and flowers. Red and pink roses line the sidewalks everywhere, and I can’t escape it. The couples are obnoxiously walking down the street hand in hand, leaning against each other, kissing. The friends are sitting outside cafés, laughing, talking and exchanging chocolates and drinks. I’m reminded of your vehement distaste for what you called a “commercial holiday,” an excuse for people to spend money on things that will end up in the trash days later. I wish you were here so that we could laugh at these people, make fun of them, and maybe eat chocolate, discretely of course. After that, we would go home, refusing to spend money on expensive over-crowded restaurants. Instead, we’d watch a movie, make a home-made meal (or order take-out, you were never the best cook), and talk, about anything and everything. Finally, we would go to sleep with our naked bodies tangled under the sheets that smelled of coconut and vanilla, your favorite lotions.

So, I’m here now, in this empty apartment, wishing for something that will never happen. Since you’ve left me, I’ve felt like you took a big part of me, of who I was, especially when I was with you. Why did you have to die? It isn’t fair, you know, leaving me like this, all alone so that I have to cope with life without you by my side. I know you’re shaking your head by now, telling me to stop being self-pitying and over-dramatic, and to move on with my life. Mostly, I’m angry at myself, for not having said the things I should have said before it was too late. That’s also why I’m writing this letter, to let you know how I feel. I will seal this up in a plain white envelope, write your name in black marker, and place it somewhere I know you’ll find it.

I love you, Scar. I always have, and I always will.

Aaron