Letter to a Lost Friend
Untitled | Excel Montepio | Digital
Letter to a Lost Friend by Charlie Van De Moortel
In the summer of 2022, you got us matching necklaces. Yours was labradorite; mine rainbow moonstone. It touched my soul, that necklace it did. You probably didn't notice, and we probably went back to whatever horror movie we were watching while shoving Toll House cookies into our mouths.
I can't recollect if I took it to Vermont with me that year, but I wouldn't be surprised if I did. Do you remember what time you called me? It must've been about midnight. I couldn't sleep. You were crying. “I just miss you so much,” you choked out. And so we talked for hours. I told you I loved you that night, that I was in love with you and that we were probably soulmates because I'd never felt closer to anyone.
I still have a photo of you from that night, with a putty mustache on your face and your eyes filled with blissful sleep deprivation.
I got back into reading that summer with the help of Alice Oseman and the heartbreaking story of Aled Last. He meets a girl named Frances, and they find solace in each other's awkward yet loveable company. I sent you many pictures of those pages, reminding me how much you had meant. How much you had changed me. How much you had saved me.
Your responses were not what I had hoped. Maybe my expectations were too high. Maybe I was annoying. Maybe it was my fault.
In September, we had our first sleepover followed by thrifting in the morning. We didn't talk much for the rest of that school year. You were too busy, too tired. I was too much.
I can’t remember whether we got to hang out around my birthday, though I'm pretty sure our plans fell short. You were having a celebration with your family for your birthday. It just wasn't going to work out.
We didn't go to the pride parade in June like you said we would. Plans fell short. School was too busy.
We hung out twice over the summer of 2023. We watched our last horror movie in your basement, we ate our last package of Toll House cookies, and we drank our last Arizona iced teas.
We had a sleepover around July 14th. My LED lights were turned to blue, and our moods matched the hue. We told of our troubles and the seeds in the sink. Silver held in shelves, bandaids under sleeves.
And that was it. We haven't hung out since. Our classes are switched, and we’ll never sit down in the basement, shock on our faces, crumbs in our laps, cans opened with a crack.
~ Letter to a lost friend
