What I’d Like To Think You’re Like Now That I’m Gone

I’d like to think that, every time you are sitting in some dingy noodle restaurant in Chinatown, you think of me. And when that delicious pool of MSG is placed in front of you and you inhale that salty fragrance, you think of how I would probably want a bowl of wonton noodle soup as well.

I’d like to think that every Facebook like you give me and every Snapchat you reply is because you still want to be a part of my life. You don’t want me to forget you. You type in the first three letters of my name in the Facebook search bar and scroll through my profile to make sure you haven’t missed anything. Sift through the old photos of us and read through the comments on those posts and smile at the memories.

I’d like to think that every time you listen to Kaskade, you remember the time we went to see him. And every time you find a new song, you wonder if I would like it too. And when you go clubbing after a few shots, you remember those nights in Taipei, when we danced and kissed and discovered how perfectly our bodies fit together.

I’d like to think that the reason you drunk text me is because you miss me. That it’s just an excuse for you to talk to me. That it’s the only time you feel brave enough to break free from the constant urge to talk to me. That even though you have stubbornly kept quiet for a week, intoxication breaks down your barriers and you just want to hear my voice.

I’d like to think that when you look at a map and feel thirsty for travel, you think of me as a traveling partner again. And you recall fondly the week we went from hostel to hostel, napped cozily on those greyhound rides and yelped for places to eat. And then you think of how much I would love New York. How much I would love that Airbnb in Seoul. How much you wished we could just go somewhere again, far away. Together.

I’d like to think that sometimes you imagine what would happen if I visited you. Or just suddenly appeared somewhere in your daily life. Or if you spontaneously decided to take a four hour flight to Vancouver, how happy I would be. And that sometimes you dream of me, and wake up feeling incredibly sad and lonely when you realize that I am a million miles away. Lying in another bed.

I’d like to think that, that day when we were both catching different flights at the same time at SFO, that you desperately wanted to see me. And that you were incredibly frustrated at how late you were as you impatiently stood in line, waiting for my message. And how disappointed you were. When you realized that I had left without seeing you for the last time. And only replied your last message when I was already in Seattle.

I’d like to think that you fiercely regret telling me that it would never work. And that you really wished you had just said that you liked me. Like me so much. And that you often imagine how lovely it would be, if we could call each other every day, say good night to each other every night, plan our trips to visit each other and count down the days together, day by day.

I’d like to think that even now, you are trying to work up the courage to tell me all of this. That you think about ‘us’ and convince yourself of all the reasons this could work. That soon, you will be brave enough. And confident enough. And that you will finally say ‘Let’s talk’.

I’d like to blame it on distance. On time.
I’d like to believe in a perfect world.
I would like to.