Three Words

It was just a game. For the lack of a better term, anyway. "Write a note to show someone you appreciate them." Simple enough. I knew I didn't want to be a part of the game so I pretended not to notice it was going on. I hid. No one here appreciates me. Not in this group. Why participate in an exercise just to see who will write lies and stretched truths? But of course he'd notice. He'd take the bait, thinking I didn't notice the game going on. He just had to be the friend he is and put my name in the hat.

Fine. Maybe one of the few people I still get along with will get my name and write something funny but meaningless in the end.

Why'd it have to be you? Twenty-odd people and you draw my name. You. The one I hurt with the least effort. Three fucking words that will haunt me to my grave. We haven't talked in months. How could you possibly appreciate anything about me? You called me disgusting. You were right.

But you didn't throw my name back. You could've said you picked your own name or one of your sisters' but you didn't. You kept it. And you wrote a note. You used every inch of that little paper to write me a note. From the heart, too, from what I can tell.

But what you wrote wasn't what people typically consider to be from the heart. It was real. You didn't get all emotional and tell me that you miss our friendship or that you over reacted and that you're sorry. Anything along those lines would have made you a liar. No, you were as honest and uplifting as you could be. You were real.

But that was the point of the game, right? To show appreciation. Maybe you wrote the few words of kindness you could bring yourself to write through the anger I know you must still feel. Sure, it would be lying but you're such a caring, considerate person. You'd be thinking of my feelings the whole time.

But I don't think you did. I think you meant every word you wrote on that little scrap of paper. And you know what else? Despite your anger, despite hating my guts, I think you wanted to tell me that. I think you were happy to be able to have the opportunity to express a feeling toward me that didn't turn your stomach. That's just so you. So loving, even amidst your anger.

But it didn't change anything. On your way out, I thanked you for the note, trying to lace my words with as much meaning as I could since I couldn't hug you. Not now. You gave me (what looked like) a forced smile, said, "You're welcome," and walked out the door. How could I do anything but stand there and wonder if it would have been better to not have said anything at all.

Life goes on. We won't magically start talking. We won't pick up where we left off. Maybe some day we'll talk again, have some semblance of a friendship, but it won't be what was. It can never be. I'll never again idly play with the bracelets you were too fidgety to keep on your arm. I'll never again spend an hour talking with you in your basement on one of my random visits. I'll never again hear you say that I'm like a brother to you. Never again.

Your note is in my wallet now. It's hard not to pull it out and read it every time I think of it. Eventually, though, that will stop too. I'll forget it's even there. I'll stumble across it down the road sometime, read it with a smile and put it back, unable to part with it. One thing remains certain though.

The memory of your words will last longer than the ink on your note in my pocket.