Prose that may be too bland or too blue;
Random stories that may or may not be true;
All penned by Alice in her times of loneliness;
They shall aid the mind and heart of the restless.
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Jude and Claire. Claire and Jude. It’s always been us. You can never find one without the other.
We loved movie theaters and skateboard ramps. We both disliked sweets and rainy mornings. We knew everything there was to know about each other. I could probably write a novel just about your deepest, darkest secrets, and you could probably do the same with mine. We were partners in crime. I was the Granger to your Potter and the Winslet to your DiCaprio.
I was six or seven, probably, when I met you. I remember exactly when it happened. It was the second of April, twenty summers ago, at the playground, the one near the local supermarket downtown. You said you were Jude. I said I was Claire. We both sat on the swings, bright-eyed and sweat-soaked, then we declared that we would be “best friends” forever.
We uttered those words as a burst of exhilaration, just out of excitement and joy at meeting each other, but one year later, those words turned into a pinkie promise. When we were ten, those words became a lifelong contract. When we were sixteen, those words became an unbreakable vow.
And when we were eighteen, everything changed for me. People left, time moved faster, memories accumulated, and you . . . you—
Suddenly, you were different. Suddenly, you were this beautiful boy that I wanted to be with. Your voice, your smile, your presence—everything about you became intoxicating. I started to feel something funny whenever you laugh at my stupid jokes, whenever you fall asleep on my shoulder, whenever we fight about little things, whenever you hug me, whenever you comfort me. I couldn’t hold your hand like I did before, not without feeling something funny in my stomach. At first, I thought it was just my stupid hormones. But then days, weeks, and months followed, and the indescribable emotion within me grew until I could no longer tame it.
One night, I called you. You responded with your usual cheerful tone. You were always excited to talk to me, as if I were the best thing you wanted to hear.
“I love you,” I said.
“You called just to say that?” You laughed. “Well, I love you too.”
I hung up the phone, and I cried. I cried because I knew you didn’t understand. It was normal for us to say, “I love you.” We had done it a million times before. For you, those three words meant nothing. It was as normal as saying “I love you” to your sibling. For me, those three words were the end of our unbreakable vow, because the moment I said those words, I knew that I yearned for more than just friendship.
When I said “I love you,” it meant I wanted to kiss you, taste your lips, and make you mine. When I said “I love you,” it meant I wanted to touch you in places that are too forbidden to be put into words. When I said “I love you,” it meant I love you like Cupid loved Psyche. Not like a brother. Not like a friend.
It’s never just Jude. It’s never just Claire. Claire and Jude. Jude and Claire. Together. You can never find one without the other.
But now, it’s just me. I am alone in this big, bad world. And it’s just you: Jude, alone in the open casket, looking pale from the powder they pressed on your cheeks and from the lack of blood in your skin, oblivious and unknowing of the truth that I loved you, and I still do.
This is blue.
This is darkness.
This is regret.
This is a eulogy to you, to my best friend, to the lover I never had, to the half of my life.
