Dear Little Flower,
You’re leaving in a few months. I keep track, I try.
I’m really thankful for the times we had. I might not say anything to you nowadays, but you are always here inside my pump of a heart.
You know, times have changed since I first met you. You’ve become more and more busy, and I’ve been busy, too. You’re a mathematical variable that has a wide domain. You’ve been friend, lover, younger brother, son, enemy, father, Doraemon-like cartoon character, traitor, secret agent, nerd, master, (master) chef, waiter, minder, handyman, annoying bystander who gives unsolicited advice, cat (this, recently).
In all your roles you’ve managed to be at least average, so good on you.
And now you’re going. I’m not going to see your whiskers again, or touch your hair, or pet you. I’ve always felt a deep, if vague, affection for you, and it’d be stupidity to not realize that you notice it. You ignore it and acknowledge it, in various ways, silently or loudly. But I guess it would be horrifying (for you and for me) if we’d start to express whatever we felt openly.
Flower, I’m just a friend. One out of so many, I know. Because of you I learned to discard “special”. But you’re every bit special to me, just that you’ll be the only one. After this incident with a person who I really thought was going to be a close friend (which you may or may not have mediated, fuck you for that), I scaled back so much of my expectations of everyone. You were the first casualty, but then again, I’d say not a casualty at all, since I felt more free even with you around.
You are the only thing remaining with me, and yet I have no qualms letting you go. But not out of an annoyance. It’s rather the realization that you’re really just an actor that can play so many roles, and I’ve been truly satisfied. And that I could be that actor too, playing so many roles to satisfy myself the way you satisfy me.
I still love it when you talk in your somewhat-accented English. And when you’re in character for any of your roles. I’m just a spectator, a moviegoer, and sometimes I talk so much, too, relating with you like I were yours, but mostly, I’m just a log, sleeping like a human.
I’ve learned to become an actor, too, and the feeling is so liberating. I kid you not, nor is it sarcasm to say so.
I still love you, but I’d like to see you go, and soon, with nary a goodbye. I don’t have any deep-seated feelings anymore. Everything is just like the best movie everyday. You, a teenager in a twenty-four-year-old’s body, and I, a teenager in a twenty-six-year-old’s body. There is no need to formally terminate our friendship, or say we’re “on and off”, no need to take me out to eat before you leave, no need to say formal goodbyes.
Only a cat meowing on the windowsill is what I need.
Sincerely yours, and so much in love,