We met at a restaurant. Later I’d learn that it was your mother’s restaurant and you’d never been a server before. It was one of your first weeks. You’re actually a much better cook.

I’d seen you serving the patio as I walked in, you looked at first exactly like Bradly Cooper. Now in my mind, you are definitely not Bradly Cooper. You’re just you.

I was wearing a romper that I still have and I can’t put it on without thinking about you, because that night shifted my entire life. 

I can picture you talking to me and teaching me about things you’re interested in. You blew my mind with the wonders you were learning about the universe and planets and stars. You even had a telescope. Wait, have. You definitely still own it.

Once you took me on a hike and taught me about mushrooms and then got mad when I touched a toadstool because stuff like that is poisonous and then laughed when you saw the look of shame and horror on my face. We chased each other out of the woods and hopped into the car where our skin stuck to the leather seats and our faces became numb against the wind coming in through the windows. 

We’d smoke weed and eat whole pizzas and one time we watched that weird movie about that monster that I can’t remember the name of. We talked a lot. You were so honest about everything, so blunt and open. I really like that about you. I hope the memory of our conversations will travel through time nestled deep in your belly like they will mine. 

This writing is terrible, and it’s not giving our weird little friendship the description it deserves. I can’t seem to type words out that convey how you made me feel about myself. Maybe because I can’t remember details exactly, I just remember being really overwhelmed by you. I had mistaken this feeling as love at first sight, but I don’t think I ever loved you. It had just been my conscience knowing that the moment I realized I needed to be near you marked the point where I knew I wasn’t in love with my then-boyfriend any longer. You taught me that I’m really beautiful the way I am and that I deserved to be told so over and over again. No one had ever flattered me so genuinely.

I think about how you might be a bigger part of my life if I wasn’t so eager to make you a big part of my life. 

I know if I texted you now you would respond, but I’m not in a place where I need you anymore. Maybe one day we’ll meet in the street and catch a beer and enjoy each other’s company all over again. I’d like to hear you sing again one day. 

I’ve thought about you a lot lately and hope you’re doing okay.