The first time I remember feeling truly inspired was when I was 7. I was in bed, and I couldn’t sleep, I didn’t want to sleep, because I was watching the moon overwhelm from outside my window. 

Everything was dark, but the moonlight painted the bedroom a silvery blue, inviting the shadows that are often lurking to come out and play. Yet there was a stillness I could not shake. A stillness born from awe. 

And in that moment, I knew I was never going to forget the details of that night. How the bright glow muted the stars that frequently freckled the sky. How the dark gray silhouette of the trees around our house seemed inconsequential next to the intense illumination from the moon. It was stunning really. And it was everything to me. 

Now my view is a little different. I can’t even see the sky from my apartment window. Instead, I see the gray classrooms of the elementary school blocking our view. But sometimes, when a light lingers after-hours and spills into our bedroom, and as I am waiting for sleep, I am reminded of that night, of that seven year old girl who caught the moonlight.

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We lay side-by-side on the bed we shared for years, both defeated, both shining with sweat from the relentless summer heat. Our bodies were so close to each other, the heat tied us together, as if we were touching, even though we were careful not to. I was turned towards our bedroom window, the one that faced the street with the perfect view of the neighboring apartment’s trees, and all I could think about was how much I didn’t know you. 5 years of being together, and I’m still in bed with a stranger.

Hours of yelling, months of crying alone, unforgivable deeds committed by the both of us. Covered and then discovered. Trust abandoned only to be replaced with blame. Relief from the silences forged by distance. Fear of wasted time, fear of being alone. But then again, aren’t I already alone in this?

Our bodies were paralyzed, and we stayed there, together in the silence. Exhaustion has taken over, and we were out of new ways to hurt each other. But even more than that, we didn’t want to waste the energy into something that was surely dead.

 You finally broke the stillness. “Are you hungry? Do you want to get dinner with me?” I nodded in response.

And just like that—it was over. We both climbed out of bed, slipped on our shoes, and walked outside to find a restaurant and air conditioning.

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And what I remember the most from that night was not the words that stung, not the person who released them carelessly, and not the work that I bled over to meet an impossible deadline. No, what is most vivid in my memory was how I could hear my heart beating. All the noise around me was suddenly muted, the meaningless noise, as if it was sucked into this invisible vacuum.  

And suddenly the world slowed down, and then there was nothing. Nothing but my heartbeat. My every sense became obsessed about feeling each beat, one by one. It wasn’t racing, just loud. It wasn’t painful, just present. So incredibly present. Taking over everything with power and grace.

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But still, my favorite moment of the day is waking up early, while the city is still deep asleep, and walking my dog as the morning light starts creeping in. I love being alone. I love that first breath I take when I step outside–the breath that truly hits you in the face. I love the camaraderie of the few loners I encounter, that knowing smile we share before we look ahead, already forgetting the face we just saw. I love sneaking a peek inside the homes of my fellow New Yorkers, seeing their Christmas trees lit, their shelves full of books.

It’s moments like these that make my heart feel absolutely full.

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I believe I love him the most when I miss him. His flaws are replaced by the warm memories of his kindness. And sometimes, that’s okay, too. When our conversations and lives hit a lull, ideals of him can be preferable to just him. The little fights focus on our sharp fragments, but these ideals let me still see him as a whole. And that’s how I love him. As a whole.

A person who hasn’t been in my life for a few years just passed away yesterday. The news stunned me; it made me feel like my insides are thrashing about while my outsides are frozen.

I never feel like I’m worthy of any elaborate or eloquent eulogy, but I do want to express my appreciation for this young man.  

Thank you for being my very first crush in elementary school and showing me that boys are in fact, not icky.

Thank you for choosing to be my friend even when everyone else was careless with their words at that age.

Thank you for coming back into my life years later, just when I needed you, and reminding me what it feels like to have that same childhood crush after years of feeling numb and building up walls.

Thank you for making me smile to a point where I simply couldn’t stop because I was so happy with you even though I was fumbling around in the dark.

Thank you for granting me so many tender memories together - wrapping me in your arms when I was being cold, always holding my hand when I was scared, and making me feel beautiful and funny enough for anything or anyone.

Thank you for giving me the lessons that only a broken heart can teach, and still loving me even when I broke your heart over and over again.

Finally, thank you for being a part my world and changing me. You mean so much more to me than you will ever know. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

When we broke up, I was devastated. There were days when I couldn’t get out of bed because I was overwhelmed with the realization that you weren’t going to be a part of my life anymore. I wanted to tell you everything, and I wanted things to be different between us, and I wanted to let you know that I’m not afraid of being weak anymore. But I didn’t, and you didn’t, and even though we both moved on, I want you to know that I will always miss you.

So thank you, Patrick.