solidarity, pt. 4

Melissa.

I think I told you once that I hated the idea of being alone with my thoughts, and I'm pretty sure you took it literally. It wasn't so much about . . . well, it's like this. The plan, when I got back from London, was to share what had been happening inside my head for the duration of my trip. I'd been, in the strictest sense, alone with my thoughts for most of that time, but I was fine with that. I looked forward to seeing you again. When I told you I hated the idea of being alone with my thoughts, what I really meant is I hated the idea of losing the solidarity we had.

And we kept it through some pretty rough times, didn't we? Even when we hated each other there was always a sense of camaraderie there. You may have been convinced I was history's greatest monster, and you may not have even been that far off, but you still listened to my thoughts. We shared the strange conviction that there is a difference between people who are important to each other, and people who like each other. We'd always been the former; we were only occasionally the latter.

That was a connection that was deeper than anything else. So it never crossed my mind that when I got back, you'd leave me alone with my thoughts, using my carry-on as a pillow, staring at the sterile lines of the empty airport, the feeling of this profound bond we once shared unraveling keeping me from anything remotely resembling sleep.