dear fig,

i remember you especially on Sundays.

our once deemed mindless chitter chatter, is what i remember in love and sadness. lately, it seems these two emotions have been coupled, as if weaved into unity. it’s odd, i can’t quite understand why, just yet. we were some thousand miles away from one another, but i’ve never felt closer to you, since. our conversations were brimmed with dark humour, dramatising incidents, imitating accents. blown bubbles of reminiscent and nostalgia. we seldom brought up the darker parts- i didn’t mind and neither did you. it was as if we had an unspoken agreement not to, a secret handshake – a code known to no other apart from ourselves.

we were so little, there was such lightness; despite the tunnelling escape, we were forced to slide through. not unscathed of course. there were all sorts of wounds, both gapping and shallow. yours healed a little quicker, but we know how scars are. some days, we’re unconscious of it’s existence and forgetful of how they even came to be. others, well…it’s a little like running your fingers across your skin and stumbling upon the bumps, once flapping open with gushing red.

it’s time for bed soon. the sky was crimson this evening – a beautiful kind of red, still violent but far away from us. in the setting distance, amidst glowing clouds from the warm sunset. i think you might have seen it from where you were.

please write soon, i would love to hear from you.

fondest thoughts,

clare

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