When I knew you, you were still so young, barely 20. You were this handsome young man that ran his fingers through his hair to style like a freaking model. You had so many interests and so many ambitions. You talked about passion and affection often. And you always carried a notebook in the back pocket of your jeans.
You were a writer. You were a poet. Inspiration could struck you anywhere so you carried around a notebook. We were in a hallway, we were at a concert, we were at a construction site, you pulled out your crumpling notebook and noted something down. You never let me read what was in it. You never let anyone read what was in it. Or may be you did. May be you let the girl that slept with you, curled up next to you in the cold nights of Illinois read them. May be they had that pleasure.
I told you one day, if you were about to die and I was still there, if we were still in each other’s lives, I would just like you to leave me that notebook in your will. When you’ll die, I’d get a chance to learn about you even more. The irony, I know.
It had been years since we got to be each other’s best friend. We moved too fast and we lived too far. I couldn’t wait to get out of that college town as soon as I graduated while you stayed for a while longer. But you also left, to the glamorous city of Angels. You have a career now. You make good money. I wonder if you were still that young kid deep inside? If you were still carrying a notebook around?