Play this while reading:

I stood in a room that was not my own, and I know it was not because it was his, he had made it his. It didn’t matter who came and went, how many of the books were mine, how many hours I passed in there gathering my knowledge and spewing it out on assignments. This room was his, because of that drawer.

One night when he didn’t know what he was doing, a night that he didn’t remember what he said, a night when he said some things he might not like remembering, I got a peek into that drawer. Up until that night I had spent my days cleaning around it, walking around it, not even noticing it, I knew the past was in there, it had been mentioned before, but I never felt the need to do anything about it. Why should I? We all have what’s ours, we have the things that lie deep inside our hearts that will always be ours and we hardly tell a soul. He likes to say we tell each other everything, and for the most part we do…but there are some things that “we” don’t need to know together, some things that belong where they belong.

But that night he opened that drawer in front of me to find some long lost token to tell me that his memory had proof. There were so many in there, it was overflowing with them, some folded, some torn, some wrinkled, some paper, some plastic, some metal. They were all memories. Some of their meanings were very clear, and some not so much. He got lost in the shuffling the search for what he wanted to find and started telling me about each one as he dug. Some were happy, some were sad, some were embarrassing, and some I would rather not know. But here they were surrounding me with all their stories giving them life, they reminded me of something. Something I am always trying to forget.

He never found what he was looking for, but he did find something he didn’t want to find. He told me he hoped I’d never read it. It was a piece of thick cloth folded into a square. He said he had written it one night long ago when he had no idea what he was doing, it was a low point and he would rather not remember it. He placed it underneath the pile of other mementos and shut the door, and I tried not to think about it.

Today I found myself alone, and cleaning in that room, that room that did not belong to me, not at all, not since that night. I thought about that drawer that seemed to take up too much space, just sitting there. I tried to leave it alone, walk away, but every time I passed by I thought of what was said and how it seemed to remind me of something. How is it everything that was written and remembered and stored in there could ring with such a familiar tune. It bothered me, something that was deep in the back of my mind that I’m always running from. I thought of everything that I would have kept if I could have kept anything, if nothing had been buried, or hidden, or stolen, or just lost, my drawer would be a whole closet of things, years and years of memories that I couldn’t talk about. A whole chunk of my life gone missing. Sometimes, it still aches.

But today I realized what it sounded like. The music of all these lost echos and remembrances and letters tucked away, tokens of affection and loss. I had heard it before, all these girls were me, and all the spoken memories were you. So many similarities and heartbreaks and confusion and just plain selfishness. I was older now and on the other side of the mirror, I didn’t like what I saw, not one bit. I was angry, I couldn’t believe how they, how I had gone about things, thinking that they were sorry, sorry and beautiful, because they could be. I did not envy any of it. I was on the other side of the mirror and I knew what was coming and it hurt me. It hurt me because I loved someone who had been so damaged by someone I had been.

Opening that drawer, I knew I would read it, and knew what would be in that cloth. The secret that had probably started it all. Oh and it was, it told me everything, everything I had already known. I had been running from you, and in trying to forget I had found….

The tears won’t stop.

So we tell each other everything, some things should not be told or even hinted at. Some things have their place, and I keep my drawer scattered throughout the earth so that I can never find it again, I don’t want him to feel this way. Sometimes I wish someone would understand, would know what I’m talking about, sometimes I wish I could talk to…

It’s frustrating not being able to turn back the clock, but even if it was possible what good would it do? Would I listen to me? Probably not. I would be like all the rest of the letters because they couldn’t understand, too young, too sorry, and too beautiful. But I wish I would. I fill me days trying not to think of this, I keep myself busy with school, work, hobbies, exercise, and health. I try not to think about anything but the numbers, the numbers at work, the numbers in my homework, the numbers on the scale, on my timer, and on the boxes. I like calculations, they are soothing, numbers are soothing, painting is soothing. Thinking about the time I cannot get back is…

He likes to say that I’m amazing, the best, something he doesn’t understand how he deserves. I keep telling him I’m average, flawed, that I’ve done things I am not proud of, that there are things I wish I could take back, just like anybody else. I try my hardest because it’s what he deserves and then he argues at that point. After reading what I read in that cloth square, I wished that any time travel I could wish for was for him alone. That if any wish could be granted it would be that he could have the childhood he needed, that it would be full of happiness and love, that someone would understand him, and that he would have gotten the one that he had tried so hard for and that she would have appreciated him the way he deserved. Even if that meant he would have never met me. He doesn’t know that I pray for him every day.

Its been said that before a lot of things happened he was a very loving child. Unfortunately, some things cannot be changed.