Jun 2020
It’s Wednesday night. The light on my phone announces it’s almost 3am. I’ve spent the last 2 months unable to write, but something clicked in my mind tonight and forced me to write this goodbye letter on a paper already damp from my tears, so here it is:
Here’s to endings, to the ones that hurt, to the ones that never come, to the ones that linger in our skin and refuse to let us go. To the endings that stain our eyes red for weeks or months or years, to the ones that are taken away from us, to the ones that untangle the knots in our throats so we can learn to speak again, and to the ones that we delay so we have an excuse to say goodbye one more time.
Here’s to every ending I imagined so when this one would come it would taste less bitter. But no, this is not the ending I pictured and even thought I saw it coming for a long time, it doesn’t make it hurt less.
The truth is I’m scared. I’m scared of this ending. All my previous endings hurt a bit less because I knew that I was coming back to you. I was coming home.
For a while I’ve been thinking on all the possible lives and realities that existed for me. I imagine them, lined up and I go through every inch and crease of them, and now I can see that any of them is as beautiful and bright as this one. And I have finally learnt that I don’t have to thank any strange being that might have brought me here, but the pretty and warm people I had the pleasure of sharing the best years of my life. You know, love is a town by the beach, and the people that lives there, that inspire you and changes you, always for the better. Those people that slowly and without really knowing how, sneak into your pores and when you realize, they have built a tiny house inside of you, making it weird to picture life before them. The ones that cover and caress, unaware, the ink stains from old diaries that are now, only proof that winter can’t **** you.
I feel like most of the time I’m not able to put into words everything these past 4 years brought me. It’s overwhelming to think how much my life could change so much in such a short time. I started writing my first book thanks to the infinite train journeys going home, and here it grew, nourished and saw the light, bringing me only precious things. I grew. I grew in a way I never thought I would, and I became something that looked quite similar to what I imagined when I wrote and hid notes to my 20-year-old self. I’ve broken my heart and I have healed it, and I’ve had it healed. But mostly, I’ve been happy. I’ve been happier than I thought was the happiest I would ever feel.
To end this letter, I would like to add something I found in one of the many farewell letters I’ve written. It went like this:
“And when it’s all over, we will sit somewhere we’ve never been but somehow feels familiar. Only witnesses will be our bare eyes, flooded. And I will tell you how I can still hear the sea, humbling when I go to bed, and that every time I lay in silence, I will wish I would be laying in silence with you. And I know that there will be many more winter days that somehow feel like summer, but they will for sure feel less warm. And I know that the tree will turn red in spring, and I know that it will no longer bloom for us, but I know that there will come a day when September doesn’t sting. And then you’ll hug me and my head will land perfectly on your chest. Only the beat of your heart will cover the voices screaming this could be the last”
But right now, tiptoeing in a house that will no longer be mine by tomorrow and as I remove the sunflowers from the walls, I cannot feel any sort of pain. How can it hurt to leave a place if the memories attached to it are so precious?
And all I have left to say is thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For seeing me, for letting me grow and bloom, for being Suns that always look back.
I love you with all my heart.
Goodbye <3
Here’s to endings, to the ones that hurt, to the ones that never come, to the ones that linger in our skin and refuse to let us go. To the endings that stain our eyes red for weeks or months or years, to the ones that are taken away from us, to the ones that untangle the knots in our throats so we can learn to speak again, and to the ones that we delay so we have an excuse to say goodbye one more time.
Here’s to every ending I imagined so when this one would come it would taste less bitter. But no, this is not the ending I pictured and even thought I saw it coming for a long time, it doesn’t make it hurt less.
The truth is I’m scared. I’m scared of this ending. All my previous endings hurt a bit less because I knew that I was coming back to you. I was coming home.
For a while I’ve been thinking on all the possible lives and realities that existed for me. I imagine them, lined up and I go through every inch and crease of them, and now I can see that any of them is as beautiful and bright as this one. And I have finally learnt that I don’t have to thank any strange being that might have brought me here, but the pretty and warm people I had the pleasure of sharing the best years of my life. You know, love is a town by the beach, and the people that lives there, that inspire you and changes you, always for the better. Those people that slowly and without really knowing how, sneak into your pores and when you realize, they have built a tiny house inside of you, making it weird to picture life before them. The ones that cover and caress, unaware, the ink stains from old diaries that are now, only proof that winter can’t **** you.
I feel like most of the time I’m not able to put into words everything these past 4 years brought me. It’s overwhelming to think how much my life could change so much in such a short time. I started writing my first book thanks to the infinite train journeys going home, and here it grew, nourished and saw the light, bringing me only precious things. I grew. I grew in a way I never thought I would, and I became something that looked quite similar to what I imagined when I wrote and hid notes to my 20-year-old self. I’ve broken my heart and I have healed it, and I’ve had it healed. But mostly, I’ve been happy. I’ve been happier than I thought was the happiest I would ever feel.
To end this letter, I would like to add something I found in one of the many farewell letters I’ve written. It went like this:
“And when it’s all over, we will sit somewhere we’ve never been but somehow feels familiar. Only witnesses will be our bare eyes, flooded. And I will tell you how I can still hear the sea, humbling when I go to bed, and that every time I lay in silence, I will wish I would be laying in silence with you. And I know that there will be many more winter days that somehow feel like summer, but they will for sure feel less warm. And I know that the tree will turn red in spring, and I know that it will no longer bloom for us, but I know that there will come a day when September doesn’t sting. And then you’ll hug me and my head will land perfectly on your chest. Only the beat of your heart will cover the voices screaming this could be the last”
But right now, tiptoeing in a house that will no longer be mine by tomorrow and as I remove the sunflowers from the walls, I cannot feel any sort of pain. How can it hurt to leave a place if the memories attached to it are so precious?
And all I have left to say is thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you. For seeing me, for letting me grow and bloom, for being Suns that always look back.
I love you with all my heart.
Goodbye <3
