Home And Other Things

To you, before I know what to call you,

I’ll find the right word when I’m in a better state to think about it.

I hope this letter never reaches you, and somehow reaches you anyway. What happened between us felt like more than I expected. After years, things began to feel like home again. I started socializing. I felt more complicated, more alive. I laughed until my heart hurt and cried like a baby, sometimes all at once. That strange happiness kept me going. I never thought I would say this to anyone, but I want to say it to you.

There is a song I have kept close to my heart all these years: “Where I Stand” by Mia Wray. There is something in it I can’t quite explain. You didn’t fix anything for me. You helped me see that I still have a long way to go, and that the road ahead might be happier. You made me believe that.

I don’t remember the last time we talked. I only remember trying to pay attention to your words and my feelings at the same time. The words seemed to dance in front of me, like in Taare Zameen Par.

The other night, we were both intoxicated. I never expected something as simple as holding hands to feel so romantic. It felt like home. It felt safer than I had felt with other people.

I have always been drawn to arrogant people. For a long time, I thought that kind of intensity was normal. I didn’t want ordinary. Ordinary seemed boring. But I’m beginning to understand that ordinary can be exactly what you need when you’re tired of facing every storm alone, especially when you’re not ready to face them yet.

There is so much more I want to talk about with you. I may not be brave, but I tried, and I think I ruined it. Ruining things is what I’m good at: people, places, love, relationships, everything I’m afraid to lose.

I’ve never written a love letter before, so I don’t know if this is what one is supposed to feel like. I only know that writing this feels strangely wonderful. There is nowhere else I would rather be right now.

I’m not ready to fight my demons. Are you?

I’ll write you another letter, maybe fifty years from now.

Until I find the word, and until the next letter,

Yours, later,
M.