He says that sometimes when he looks outside and sees that it’s raining, he feels like he made it happen. “Do you know what I mean?” Yes and no, always yes and no. I don’t see colors where shades should be, if that’s what you’re asking. I used to wonder if I had what you have, if my brain could misfire like yours, sometimes cave in on itself. Like swerving across lanes - something is not right, but you’re okay, no one was hurt, wake up, you hit the curb, we’re okay, just drop me off at camp.
It gets so hard sometimes that it just makes sense: why I moved so far away, why you fall asleep in your food, why I pluck the strings, but you, you play the chords. I should never be jealous, should consider myself lucky, because I don’t see what you see. I don’t see shadows in an empty room.
I never found the letters I saved in a shoebox - four long years buried in a closet - never even found the box, come to think of it. Usually, it’s a relief. But there are times, truth be told, times when I wish I could remember more about our shared past, our beliefs, what connects us, how I’m the apple if you’re the tree.