Red moon

A ghost in my what-ifs, a sword without edge, a friend turned grey

We held hands in fourth grade and vowed never to let our small fingers break any pinky promises. We braided baskets out of children’s wonder and girlish dreams, filled them with carefully cultivated prophecies. I want to be a star, you used to say. I know you will, I replied. I always took the first step towards the fire exit, brought you with me like a wounded animal, and I strutted beside you when you did not dare to ride the elevators. Do you remember? Everyone passed us by like wild horses on fields, and I stood steady with your hand in mine. I walked all of those stairs, however many, however far. Did I agree right then and there, to be the weapon to your hauntings? An edge so sharp, the kill would be clean and honest? By holding your hand for all of those years, did my hand become a hilt? Did my blade sharpen your loyalty, or did it slash our baskets in pieces? As of now, I cannot tell. With strands of what-ifs unfurling at my feet, I know you will haunt them, all of them, and I will miss my swordsmanship. There is no finer blade than one that has lost its knight, one that is sharp as grief.

We joined as one in music, in art. I remember being at my happiest those evenings where I let your passions drag me underwater, to let my delusions swim deep and my dreams fly freely. I think we should start a band, I said. I am surprised we haven’t!, you replied. And so we found something new to fixate on, something new to curate to our own liking. Red moon. That is what I wanted to call us. We would do everything by the thread of our own needle — I was to write about love, and you would haunt our set with your tragedies and bad decisions. I figured Red moon was to become our saviour, what would bring you back home safe and sound. But we never got to that point before I had turned my heart inside out for you to feast upon. Our red moon is lost beyond what we know. I mourn what we could have been. I grieve what we could have made.

I met the love of my life three years ago and I want to be his wife someday. I remember all of our sleepless nights talking about weddings, about ceremonies where love would prevail, and how our everlasting friendship would be seen by everyone. Sitting here, with everything in my lap, I feel unsure whether to imagine you in that fantasy, still. We dreamt of tossing bouquets, long speeches about our life as best friends, standing at each others altar as a maid of honour. We were two essential pieces in each others lives and well being. Now, I feel like I have lost everything. Every joke, every memory, they are all mirrors of you. When Taylor said, I knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs, I never thought I would connect that thread of words to you. But I do. I do not deserve to be treated this way, I said. That was the last of it.

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