Dear ______

The people who change us don’t always stay. But here’s to the lessons they teach us anyways.

BY: ANONYMOUS

A photo I took when we walked over the highway in first year. // Photo courtesy of the author. // THE UNDERGROUND

Dear _____,

Do you remember lying in the snow listening to “Bobcaygeon”? It was in January, shortly after I got dumped, and we were on another one of our late-night walks. You flopped straight onto your back to make a snow angel. I was afraid of snow getting in my coat, but I did the same. 

We lay there staring up at the stars, philosophizing about love and life. You put on “Bobcaygeon.” It was the first time I’d heard it. It was a perfect movie moment. The cold, late-night air. Someone I loved beside me. Gord Downey blaring from your iPhone speaker.

It’s what I thought about when you told me you were engaged. It was quick; you’d only started dating him months ago, and moved in together even more recently. Not that I really knew the ins and outs of your relationship. We hadn’t talked for a while. We hadn’t really talked at all since first year ended. During that summer, you went ghost. When you finally texted, it was to say that you were moving back home and changing schools. It’d been a tough semester, and there was lots of drama with your family. It made sense. But things were never the same after.

Whenever we did check in, it was brief. You’d disappear after a few messages, not even reading my replies until months later. But when you told me you were getting married, you said something I didn’t expect. Not only were you eloping in a couple weeks, but you wanted me to come.

I was just thinking last night about how I miss you and everything we had. I want you to be there. 

I stared at that message for a long time. Everything we had. What exactly was that?

In our first year of university, we were roommates (“Oh my God, they were roommates”) living in North Residence. We got assigned to the accessible townhouse so there were six of us there, and by chance you got the room across from mine on the second floor. I remember us sitting outside our doors, talking late into the night. 

We bonded through trips to Walmart and late-night milkshakes and slushies from the gas station down the road. Our first time going downtown, we spent two hours walking in a giant circle because Google Maps screwed us over. We sang along to Mamma Mia and did drunk karaoke even though we knew the walls were thin.

The view from North Residence. // Photo courtesy of the author. // THE UNDERGROUND

You were in the same program as me, so we walked to class together, made fun of other students, debated which professor was hottest. We procrastinated on our assignments by watching Riverdale and discussing past crushes. You had your eye on an RA who you were convinced was flirting back. For the first semester, I was dating a guy from high school.

When he broke up with me, you let me cry and rant as many times as I wanted to. You told me  everything was going to be okay. You took me to get slushies and tried to point out hot guys in class.

And you flirted with me. 

I’m not sure when exactly that dynamic entered our friendship, but it soon became a running gag, to the point where I started to wonder if it was really just a joke.

A few months after we became friends, I wrote you a poem called “the bombshell blonde,” titled after my affectionate nickname for you. It was a love poem, written from the perspective of “your friendly neighbourhood bisexual.” 

During reading week, when we were in our respective hometowns, I consulted you over Facebook Messenger for advice on flirting with a guy. You told me to send him a sexy snap, and when I told you I couldn’t take sexy photos, you said, If you can’t do sexy then how were you able to turn me on? My reply: you’re the exception not the rule.

When we were back at school, on a late-night bus back to campus, I complimented your lipstick and you leaned in, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Do you want to know what it tastes like?” As you came closer, I was half-ready to kiss you before you pulled away.

Then, after you invited me to your elopement, you said your fiancé couldn’t wait to meet your “lesbian lover.” I’d forgotten, until then, that that’s what you used to call me. What we used to call each other.

It was the first time I’d ever called a girl that, even jokingly. I grew up in a conservative Christian household, where “homosexuality” was never discussed beyond its sinfulness. Never mind what the letters of LGBTQ stood for; all that mattered was that it was wrong. 

Throughout my childhood, I didn’t feel any discomfort with that perspective. I didn’t even think to question it. For a long time, I had no reason to. The circles I ran in were almost exclusively straight and white. Though I knew I definitely wasn’t white, it took longer to realize I wasn’t straight either.

Of course, there were a few times I saw a girl and felt something a little stronger than curiosity. I just told myself I was appreciating how pretty she was. 

But everything changed when I met you. 

To this day, I don’t remember if you ever explicitly told me what your sexuality was. I had reason enough to think it wasn’t just “straight,” but I can’t know for sure. What I do know was that you were way more open about your sexuality than I was. And not just your orientation. You were comfortable with your body, your wants, who you slept with.

After dating a couple guys, I had some idea of intimacy. But I was still inexperienced, especially in light of the stories you told.

When you asked me how often I masturbated, I was shocked by the question. I wasn’t even aware that was something girls did. My single mother, who never talked about sex if she could help it, had certainly never encouraged me to try it. 

But you were different. When I told you I’d never done it before, you sent me articles full of tips and techniques. You told me to watch Blue is the Warmest Colour, which is notorious for its graphic, gratuitous sex scenes. You texted me to ask how my first attempt went (poorly, for the record).

You gave me permission to think about that part of myself. To not only acknowledge it, but actually embrace it. Without that, I’m not sure I would’ve realized I was bi, not just as a joke. Of course, I have others to thank for that too. After you left, I made friends that guided me towards that conversation, towards a small-scale coming out that I still haven’t made public.

But our friendship at least opened me up to that possibility. A year ago, I befriended someone else who gave me that same pause. Who I couldn’t stop calling the love of my life, to the point that my aunt asked me why I kept talking about her like that. She reminded me of you.

I miss you too, by the way. Which made it more painful when you stopped talking to me again. First there were complications with the timing of the elopement. I expressed carefully-worded concerns about the arrangement, specifically how you weren’t telling any of your family or friends.

Then I realized that you were reaching out to me just so I could be your witness. I was a low-stakes friend, someone you could tell without it having serious long-term consequences. I tried to be generous; maybe there were other random people you could’ve asked. Maybe you really did want to reconnect, after almost three years of not seeing each other. Maybe you really wanted me to be a part of this milestone.

About a month later, you posted the engagement on Facebook. I congratulated you again. You thanked me, and asked how I was doing. I replied within a couple hours on the same day. That was April. I haven’t heard from you since.

View from the apartment we were supposed to move into together, circa April 2019 (I moved without you). // Photo courtesy of the author. // THE UNDERGROUND

It took me a while to understand how hurtful that was. How you wielded our past friendship to get what you needed. Then, when you no longer needed it, all that talk of how much you missed me was no longer so relevant. 

It’s the reason I haven’t reached out again, and probably won’t. 

There are people who come into your life, change it for good, and then leave. At the time it feels cruel or unfair. But it’s just the way we’re built. We don’t have the ability to hold onto everything and everyone we come across. 

Not everyone who loves you will be able to stay forever. Sometimes they’ll move back home or across oceans. Sometimes they’ll grow apart, drift away. Sometimes they’ll only leave seeds without staying to watch them grow.

But that never lessens the impact they have or the love they leave you with. 

I know that because of you. And whether we ever meet again, I’ll always be thankful for the lessons you taught me. For the memories we made. For the love we shared. 

For everything we had, and more.

Love,

____________