I miss writing things that maybe were fiction but maybe were not. I miss making stupid choices that made my heart hurt, but that didn’t impact the long-term. Or maybe they did. Maybe that’s why I still miss them. I miss the fucking cliches, the crying-on-the-edge-of-the-bed-while-he-was-asleep nights, the final drinks that left the whole bar spinning and getting in my car and driving home anyway.
I miss youth group and the first time he held my hand, palms sweaty, during a lecture. I miss riding my bike on cold Autumn nights across campus, taking the long way around ROTC drills because I was shy and because watching him run in full gear made my heart heavy. I miss the long drives through Iowa, a rat cage buckled into the backseat. I miss the night he backed into a car in the parking lot because he was so eager to get home with me.
I miss when it didn’t matter if someone else believed in my dreams or not because they were just that: mine.
I miss being so sure of God. Of believing in something greater and trusting and finding comfort in the Bible. I miss the spring, when I spent every spare moment with my best friend, when I always woke up to him in my bed, when we made dinner and planted seeds and adjusted my bike in the backyard. I miss my childhood, when my whole world was my dad and he listened to me like I was an adult. He taught me how to pray, how to plant flowers, how to box.
I miss every person that came before, every moment that made me what I am—a wreck. I’m always in the past, never content in the present. Soon, I’ll miss this too, this hotel and constant sunshine and terrible coffee and too many goddamn people.
And that’s the worst part of all. This moment I can’t appreciate now, I’ll long for it too soon.
I don’t feel right.