I’ve never felt as alone as when I was at your sister’s wedding, you should have been there, all your family and family friends, all stuffed into overpriced black and whites of inferior fabrics, the wedding party in peach — you still would’ve stood out, the maid of honor. We’d walk in arm in arm your bright hair, my silly tie, getting dirty looks, it would’ve been my honor. That’s not what happened. I couldn’t help thinking of that picnic we had in Central Park, pilgrim hill, under a cherry blossom, you wearing a flower sundress, picking all the dandelions along my blanket; you looked up and asked me if I’ll remember you when you’re not around anymore, without even thinking all I said was “of course”. I didn’t know what you meant at the time, I just thought you meant when you went back to Seoul before I joined you there, I find myself constantly wishing I read between your lines, between the gaps of each letter, the pauses between — I scattered some of your ashes along those cherry blossoms. I contemplated joining you on the drive home, an easy escape out of this mess, from the pain you left me; but even then we still couldn’t be together, we just wouldn’t be a world apart anymore.
I’ve been angry with you since December, which not only sounds stupid, but actually is, because aside from the obvious you being gone, it wouldn’t change anything, and it really hasn’t been helping my mental health. I’m sure you had your reasons for keeping your own secrets; after all, they were yours. But when your old roommate told me about how you had been pregnant and had miscarried a few months prior to you leaving this world — my world shattered all over again— I should’ve known. It only hit me within the last few days that you probably kept it from me because you knew I couldn’t be there to help, to comfort you, but it still sucks. I loved you with my entire being, not only could I not keep anything from you, I never wanted to — good or bad, I never wanted to. I know it’s useless to be angry or resentful about this, but it hurts like hell that you didn’t tell me.
I sat through their first dance; I broke my foot back in April, one of my first thoughts when it happened was how you would know what to do, I’m sure life would be less frustrating with you here. I felt like I should get up and take photos, but I knew mine wouldn’t be any better than the professional they hired and at least this way I couldn’t be annoyed they came out like crap. I still wouldn’t be dancing, but at least you’d have a good excuse not to as well. I don’t even know why I was invited, I guess they felt bad. Sat with people who haven’t talked to me in almost a year, and we barely spoke then, strangers with extremely familiar faces, exchanging pleasantries and their memories of you and me. I’m trying not to be bitter, I’m trying to stay the person you knew, but everything has changed since then and those changes changed me too. I guess we both broke promises. The table-card said “…& guest”, like there could ever be anybody else. I’ve never felt as alone as when I was at your sister’s wedding.
Am I wasting all my time trying hard to find the line between holding on and letting go?