11 November 2023
I’m hoping that at every door you’re waiting on the other side. I need you as a stake to lean against; I’ve lost my strength trying to grow after you’ve passed. What could ever mask your absence? Fill the you-shaped gap that’s left, passing through my life like in the cartoons we used to watch together?
We thought money could fix it all, right? The perfect house, far from this city; the perfect face, perfect clothing. But after all the hungry chasing, I’m still here: pen in hand, paper wet with tears. Writing before the mirror, face to face with the truth that I’m just a dumb teenager who doesn’t know what he’s doing. I just wanted to have a coffee on the balcony of your parents’ apartment once more. I haven’t seen them in a while.
Day by day, the smell of your skin washed away from mine. Replaced with substances, replaced in people’s hands, in winter, in summer. In different cities I’ve moved, chasing a feeling greater than this grief my body refuses to let go of. Chasing perfection, looking through the you-shaped gap in my mind's eye.
Chasing money because it helped me acquire things. Acquiring things because the rush of newness numbs the ache of the old for a day or two. But now I have no other choice than to let go of this hunger that’s slowly killing me, and accept that nothing is perfect—or perfectly you-shaped.
Things have changed since your departure. The orange streetlights that once warmed our memories are fluorescent now, sickly and pale. The green has drained from the trees, and the streets we once walked through are in ruins like an open-air museum of an ancient city. The damage feels irrevocable. The remorse of every mistake I’ve made chasing your ghost—and the consequences that followed—has its knee pressed against my neck. I’m suffocating, and even though I’m hoping you’re outside my bedroom door—about to come in, smile, pat me with an old “hayat bazen ehri chastir¹” on my back, and tell me I can come back from this—I know you can’t.
In my memories, we’re still just clueless children climbing water towers, alcohol running in our blood, watching the forest from above, under the summer sun. The innocence, the courage you took with you when you left. The way he touched you, the way you walked in there, the sound of their hateful chants is a vinyl still spinning on repeat in the back of my mind. I did it. They did it. You did it. We all collectively smudged your shape until it completely washed away.
Living life with nothing made of my own but with everything given by others, I have neither a motivational speech nor an answer to why one should feel good about themselves. I don’t know how to answer why I still wake up in the morning. I guess a small part of me still loves the beauty of it all enough.
Today a lady bug landed on my right shoulder. Despite my attempts to brush it off, it wouldn’t leave. It feels stupid to read this out loud in front of an audience, but for a moment I felt like maybe it loved me. There’s also this tree whose branches hang low enough to brush my hair each time I walk under it on my way home. Maybe it’s stupid that I’m almost nineteen and still talk to bugs, the moon, and the trees on our street. I can almost hear you laughing, mocking me for acting like one of those Californian, middle-aged, hippie ladies with chakra-yoga courses and an Airbnb that costs $900 a night.
Silly things like these remind me of you. They make me feel like the fire of our youth still stirs beneath my skin. They help me believe that, even if I’m a sapling grown crooked without its stake, I haven’t lost my spark.
Hidden behind their black umbrellas and the excuse of rain, the tears on their faces are still obvious. The sorrow pushes its way through the gates of my lower eyelids and floods my nerves. No clapping. No sound but rain. I climb down from the lectern, leaving the rest of the memorial to the counsellor, and turn toward the school gate, weaving through the body of black clothing until I find my bike waiting for me across the street, slick with rain. I ride along the same path he and I rode countless times after school—on sunny days, on rainy days. I ride until the tears wash away from my face and the rain feels lighter. I ride until I reach our spot. The stone bridge over the thin river. The fabric is clinging to my skin as the drizzle finds its way down, dripping from the ends of my hair to the hem of my vest. I run my fingers over the A&K carved into the stone. I don’t have my pocket knife, but I have my pencil case inside my bag. I pull out a pink coloured liner and write forever next to it. Then I undo my shirt and pants to climb over the railing for one more dive.
¹An Antakya dialect phrase, roughly: “Life is sometimes a donkey’s dick.” A crude but expressive way to say life can be ugly, hard, and absolutely not what you asked for.
Designed by Ege Yurdakul