My Dearest,
Do you remember the donut shop on the corner of Lexington and 34th Street?
God, I’ve forgotten what it was called. Isn’t it funny? How we spent so much of our time there and yet I cannot recall the name? One thing I will never forget, though, was the delicious smell that wafted onto the street every time the door swung open...
Remember when we used to hang out in that alleyway between the donut shop and your friend’s apartment? Smoking next to the dumpsters and letting the wind carry our secrets away; all the times I kissed you under the neon sign that hung over the sidewalk, in front of all the Midtown traffic...
What it was like to be young and in love... Just two careless twenty-somethings... We thought ourselves boys, didn’t we? Now I miss that childlike wonder we had, that sense that there was a whole world out there to be conquered. Now I know we were naïve to think that we could be boys forever.
The reason I am writing is that I passed that donut shop the other day while taking a new route to my job. It is no longer a donut shop. It’s nothing now.
The windows are boarded up and it seems abandoned. The sign on the door reads “SOLD,” but it appears yellowed and old, and I can only assume that the store has been empty for quite a while. The neon sign is no longer there, and the once-purple awning has turned a dull grey.
I think my heart shattered, just a little bit, thinking about this gloomy place that once housed our brightest memories. Still, I cannot recall its name, no matter how hard I try.
It’s been almost 15 years since you said goodbye to me. Unlike the shop’s name, I don’t think I’ll ever forget that.
I could tell what you wanted to say before you said it; your kiss was slow and sorrowful as if you didn’t want to let the moment go. But, when you pulled away and leaned against the exposed brick wall of my apartment, I braced for what you were about to say.
“I’m leaving.”
The words slipped out of your mouth like a puff of smoke from an invisible cigarette.
“When?” I asked curtly as the rays of sunlight filtered in through my dusty window and landed on the carpeted floor, forming a ghostly divide between us.
“Tomorrow.”
You turned away, unable to look at me.
I had known for some time that your parents were considering crossing the country, but I had not expected they would bring you with them.
“What did they say?” I questioned, as if my words could somehow pull you from the path you had already been set on
“They said, ‘It’s time to grow up.’”
You stared at your feet on my dark green carpet, willing them to move, like a tree attempting to pull its roots up from the ground.
We stood there in the kind of silence you only get in New York City; the kind of silence that is filled with taxi cabs and honking horns; the kind of silence that is filled with broken dreams and mending hearts; the kind of silence that is never truly quiet.
You made your way to the door, slipping your coat on as you took one last look at my apartment.
“This is goodbye,” I mumbled, blinking away my tears.
“Goodbye.”
You kissed me one last time, opened the door, and walked away.
I hope you are well. I have not seen you since you left for California. I do not even know if this letter will reach you. Maybe it will, or maybe it won’t. Maybe you have a family now: a wife and children; maybe you have forgotten our youth. Maybe you remember our love as just a juvenile escapade. Maybe you look back and wonder about who you were then, and how you have changed so much since. Or maybe you think of those years as the best of your life. Maybe you regret having never reached out to me. I will never know.
I still have the chain you used to wear; the one you had left on my bedside table and never grabbed before you left. Sometimes I wear it, but most of the time it just sits in my drawer, collecting dust.
When we were young, I believed we were invincible, inseparable. Now, my memory of you fades, along with the merriment of our youth. I cannot recall the name of that donut shop anymore. It has faded from my mind. The words have been so easily lost and yet are incredibly hard to find
Is this what it means to age? To forget? To lose? I do not want to forget you. I do not want you to forget me.
I hope that I will remember you for the rest of my days. But I know that we will both fade, eventually.
I am writing this letter while I sit alone in my apartment. If I disappeared today, would you remember me? Would you mourn me?
It doesn’t matter, I guess. Life goes on. I keep living. So do you.
The corner of Lexington and 34th Street will never be the same without you.
Yours, always
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