Small Night Thought

There are stretches where I could almost convince myself you’re gone in a normal way, the way people move on. Then something small catches me—your name still in my phone, a laugh that sounds like you, someone asking the question you used to ask—and I’m reaching for my phone thinking I should text you. Ask what you’re doing. Ask why you haven’t posted anything new. A photo. A quote. Some song that would matter to you. And then it hits: you’re not going to post anything. Not ever.

Your old Tumblr is still there, at least. Half of it doesn’t work anymore—videos gone, accounts deleted—but enough remains that I can still see how you thought. I scroll through it sometimes late at night, looking at what you collected, what caught your eye. I wish I’d been different when I had the chance. Less scared. Less useless. Something other than what I was in that moment. I wish I’d just held your hand and said what I actually meant instead of shutting down.

Over and over you kept asking who was going to save you, how you were supposed to save yourself. You wanted to burn. To fight. That wasn’t just something you said—that was the whole thing underneath everything. So I scroll through your archive late at night with my phone, remembering the places we went and the conversations that meant nothing at the time and everything now. I want you to know, wherever you are, that I haven’t forgotten. I’m still here. Still angry about it. Still sad. Still grateful you were real.