It has been a while. To what exactly, I am yet to establish. Not that our lives are strewn together so that things refuse to make sense otherwise. Neither are they drawn so independent that we exist only as harmless and insincere fleeting memories in each other’s minds. Whichever way, I know not what to write. Would you?

Is it the discomfort of being in a room, where everything is just the same and yet so different? People, furniture, machines, mugs and papers seem to be filling in the spaces just quite right - as they used to, but you seem alien and unfamiliar to the whole deal. Like that piece in a two-sided jigsaw puzzle that is set facing the opposite side.

Is it the mask, the pretence that confronts us? Are we now reduced to nothing but incomplete scattered portions of our selves, searching frantically for each other through these words?

Is it just the disoriented insomniac in me reaching out, to an alphabet of a person, so they can both put back their pieces of the jigsaw together?

Do you know what I mean? Have I already written more than I wanted to?

Maybe it is just the fact that there is something very liberating about the letters that we share. I don’t mean liberation in terms of freedom or revolution or anything large in consequence but just the sheerness of it. Maybe it is the comfort of knowing that you won’t judge. Maybe it is the rain. Maybe because it has been a while. To what exactly, I am yet to establish.

How are you, K? Is my best friend hiding something from me? I hope not.

Love,

V.