Thirteen Years

Anyone would say I have far too many memories of you. I say I don’t have enough.

There are some very beautiful ones.

Like the time in school when I looked across the room and you were there, with a pen balanced on your upper lip and your lips jutted outward, making it look as though the pen was a moustache. Everyone would do that back then. Only some people knew how to, though. You were one of the rare few.

Like the time you smiled.

And the other time, when we hugged. A hug that deserved an award for maybe the best in history.

So much more to remember, such less time to remember it all.

I never got to tell you the truth. If only I had, maybe I’d find out you felt the same. Or maybe not, but either way, I would find out.

Thirteen years ago, I had the chance. I had every chance in the world, but I didn’t make use of it.

Thirteen years ago, I was falling in love.

Why didn’t I tell you?

Thirteen years passed. Your email account got hacked so you couldn’t use it anymore. You were too sensible for social networking sites. You never had a phone. And so, we lost touch.

I became a detective. I wanted to find you, to tell you. I had gathered up whatever small amount of courage I had. It wasn’t much, but it would do.

I lost my position as a detective. They said I didn’t work hard enough. I only had your address from thirteen years ago. I didn’t know if it would work, but I decided to give it a try.

I cycled to your house. You had always liked bikes. I stayed sitting on the bike for what seemed like an eternity. Palms were covered in sweat. Forehead was covered in sweat. I felt clammy. Couldn’t do it. But I did, because I remembered those thirteen years ago. I wanted them back, with more this time.

I got off the bike and walked up to the door. Brushed ivy out of the way. Knocked. No answer. Knocked again. No answer. Peered through the dusty net curtains. Darkness stared back at me. Looked around. Nothing.

Went up to the neighbours’ door. Knocked. They answered. Asked them if they knew. They did.

You’d moved away, thirteen years ago.

I said my thanks. Sat on the bike. Another eternity. Tear tracks on my face. Got a marker, paper and some sticky tape from my bag. Got off the bike. Walked slowly towards your door from thirteen years ago again.

Slowly wrote out a note. Sealed it with a kiss. Taped it to the door, behind the overgrown leaves. The weather wouldn’t reach it there.

I didn’t need to sign. You’d recognise my handwriting. You always did.

Stood for a moment and admired my handiwork. Then walked to my waiting bike, and slowly cycled away into what had now become the night.

Maybe you’d see it, one day.

Maybe after another thirteen years.

I love you.