Once in a Lifetime

Alexander. We had only known each other for a week, but it felt like we had been friends forever. Sometimes you just click with someone and just talking with them feels so right. I had never had that happen before. It was one of the most magical things, and I don’t think I’ll ever experience something like this again.

We had happened to go into the same coffee shop about the same time. I didn’t notice him until he sat down at the table next to mine, but it was the next day where we started talking and both discovered each other’s love for writing and so many other things.

Once we had met, we developed a bad habit of staying up way too late brainstorming ideas for novels, developing our stories, and talking about the most random things. Neither one of us had been diagnosed with ADHD, but we definitely talked like ADHDers, talking much too fast and bouncing from one subject to the next completely forgetting that the whole goal of the conversation was to develop a character for one of his stories.

We didn’t care though. I definitely didn’t care. I loved it so much. I could have talked to him for hours. And I did.

He had only recently started writing novels, but he had been writing poetry for years. He was very talented. He would read me his rough drafts and I would just swoon. They weren’t even romantic, but I just felt like falling in love with him.

I didn’t. I wanted to, but it just didn’t happen. I didn’t like him like that. And he was okay with it. Even if he did like me like that. He never said he loved me or confessed any feelings like that to me. And that was okay, too.

One of the things that I absolutely loved about him was the attention he gave to his friends. We would always meet up at the coffee shop around noon and if I didn’t smile when I saw him he would ask, “Are you okay? Are you sad? What’s wrong?”

Sometimes I was just having an off-day, but Alex, he refused, dare I say, he even forbade me from being sad. And if I was, he was ready to do whatever it took to make me happy. Because I was his friend.

Oh, I absolutely loved him for it!

Even though we talked and helped each other with our stories, the fun part was talking about our previous stories. He had already told me all of his since he had only written four and finished none, while I had written a lot more than that and had finished two.

He loved hearing me talk about my stories. I don’t know why. Most of them aren’t that interesting. They’re poorly written and the plots are usually not very good. Some of them are half decent, but whenever I finished telling him, he would always be so excited about it. He never said that they were the greatest in the world, but he had seen my writing and he refused to believe they were as bad as I claimed.

There was one time when we were texting and he asked me if I would be willing to share my poetry, because I had dabbled in it before meeting him. I wasn’t a huge fan of my poetry, and I didn’t really like it. But I shared a poem with him, one that I had actually forgotten about. I sent it to him, and he texted back

“….ARE YOU SERIOUS?! You don’t think that’s GOOD! We did read the same poem right? The next time you say you’re bad at poetry, we’re bouta to THROW HANDS!”

That always made me smile.

One of his favorite songs was "The Pretender" by Lewis Capaldi. He said that song described him to a T. It’s a good song, to be fair, but it also worried me. Was he pretending with me? What perfect facade had he made for me?

“Alex?” I said, after he played me the song.

“Yeah?” He glanced up from his phone. He looked at me as if what I was going to say next was the most important thing in the world.

“I’ll help you finish your story, if you promise to never pretend with me.”

“Jacie,” he said, putting down his phone, “I honestly, don’t think I could. I’m so comfortable with you, and you make me so happy and—” he shrugged and gave me a sheepish smile, “I pinky promise. No pretending with Jacie.”

We pinky promised.

There are so many more things I could tell you about him. His passion for his writing, his love for poetry, and his fantastic little rants. The details about him, who he was as a person, like the way he would gaze so intently at me when I talked about anything. My stories, my favorite books, my least favorite books, and anything else I wanted to rant about.

He made me feel special.

Now, he’s gone. We don’t talk anymore, and it’s my fault. I didn’t show up to the coffee shop one day, and he texted me for ten minutes straight. He was terrified something horrible had happened to me.

Nothing happened. I got scared. I got stupid. I left. I could have asked him to maybe slow down. I should have just talked to him. But I didn’t. We met at the coffee shop, and I told him we couldn’t be friends anymore. I gave my lame, practiced explanation, and left.

You may hate me for it. I’m sure he hated me for it, or worse he hated himself. Don’t worry, I hate myself for it, too. He never pretended with me, but I guess I did with him.

I think about him every now and then, wishing we could still talk. There was a story I was working on, something he was helping me with. I wish he could see the progress I’ve made on it. To tell him about the world building that I’ve done and rant about the problems that I’m having, but he’s not here.

I mourn the loss of our relationship everyday. Now, I can’t go back. No matter how much I miss him, our friendship is gone, and what it could have been.

He died in a car crash a month after we stopped talking.

He was such a good friend to me, and I’m ashamed that I wasn’t even a fraction of the friend he deserved. I failed as a friend. I failed as a decent person. I got scared of what our relationship could be, and didn’t think about what it was.

You deserved so much better.

I’m sorry, Alexander.