The Yellow Jacket (A reminisce)

 

You know, my friends vouch for you. They really do. And I swear, if I ever broke your heart, they’d probably kill me. Funny thing is, they don’t know you. They’ve never even met you. All they’ve seen is one picture of you—and that was before you became the incredible person you are now. Before everything. And me? I knew who you were back then. Damn, I’m proud of you.

The other day, they asked me, "Do you still talk to her? Do you write about her in your stories?" And I didn’t have the heart to tell them the truth. That I do write to you. I write letters that I never send. So I just shrugged and said, "She told me not to write about her. So no, boys, I don’t."

But the truth? The stories, the words—they’ve always been for you. Just for you. My archives—they’re a little museum of us. A secret garden where no one else is allowed. Sharing those with anyone else? God, that feels like letting the world in on my pretty little secret, and that just doesn’t seem right, does it?

And that picture of you, the one where you’re wearing that jacket? It’s the wallpaper on my iPad. The late-night calls? I’ve got screenshots of those tucked away in some memory file. The truest beauty of all of this is that I’ve never shared it with anyone. Just God. And yeah, He knows everything. Too much, maybe—omniscient and all.

You ever think about what it would’ve been like back in the old days? No phones, no texts, no video calls. None of this digital noise. Imagine waiting for the post office to deliver my letter to you—days, maybe weeks. Standing in line, opening my mailbox, hoping your reply was finally there. Back then, it would’ve been the postman’s fault if my words didn’t reach you. Now? Now it’s instant. Seconds. And the ache comes not from the wait, but from wondering if you even cared enough to read it.

My friends—they don’t get it. They look at me, the guy who can turn words into magic, and they ask, "How can someone like you not fall in love?" And maybe one day I’ll tell them. Maybe I’ll say, "Well, boys, I met her. I almost had her. And just when life gave me this fleeting fairytale with her, I lost it. Lost her. One random night, it all slipped away."

What do you even make of that?