Letter to Someone Who Has Not Returned

You do not need to reply.

I wrote that sentence three times. I crossed out the first two because it sounded too much like a pose, as though I no longer cared. The truth is that I cared for so long that eventually even I found it ugly.

The day you left, you took only one suitcase. It was not full: two shirts, a book, a black umbrella. You said too much luggage made it hard to move quickly. I stood at the door and asked if you would come back. You did not answer.

When I told people about it later, everyone supplied a reason for you. You did not know then. You were afraid of saying the wrong thing. You did not mean it. I nodded, because all of those sounded more dignified than: he simply did not want to answer me.

Sometimes I wish you had been crueller. You could have said, No, I will not come back. At least then I would not have spent all these years translating silence into possibilities.

I still have your old number. Not because I will call it, but because I have never found a way to delete it that did not feel theatrical. Whenever my phone says it is a contact’s birthday, I look first, then turn the reminder off. Last year I changed your name to a full stop. Later I thought that was childish and changed it back.

You see, I am not as composed as I imagined.

Last month I moved house. I paused at the emergency-contact field. Your name was still there. I no longer remember when I entered it: perhaps when we had just met; perhaps in some early morning when the form asked and I chose you without thinking.

I deleted it.

Nothing happened. The phone did not ring. No light flashed. The weather did not change. That night I ordered dinner as usual and ate noodles that were too salty. By the end I was almost angry: apparently some important actions receive no music in real life.

I passed the café we used to visit. It had changed its name and its tables. A girl I did not know sat by the window writing a long message to someone. I did not go in. Across the road, waiting for the light, I remembered how you always took the sugar packets with you, saying you would save them for next time.

I used to think that was thrift. Now I think perhaps you never truly believed there would be a next time.

I do not wish you happiness. It is too convenient a blessing, like wrapping a thing and giving someone else responsibility for it. I do not wish you regret either. Regret is useless, and I no longer want any relation to your feelings.

I only want to tell you this: the light by the door is off. Not because I suddenly grew up, nor because I have finally forgiven you. Electricity has become expensive, and I need sleep too.

If you come back, you may knock. If I do not open the door, do not stand there for too long.