DIRTY CANVAS

Hello Askar,

Writing to you again another year has passed. A whole year, many days, countless minutes, and seconds. You’re not going to read this, so I'll do that for you. A lot has changed since you left. I always think about moving out, but I just can’t. It feels like you're still here, lingering in the corners of this apartment, even in those drawers. I feel you. Not that you lived in those drawers, but they did come in contact with you. I guess I’m not writing as well as [ used to, or maybe I’m just trying too hard to sound good in this letter.

What else? I sit most of the time in silence, hoping that if I’m quiet enough, maybe you'd talk. But no, you don’t. I cleaned your space and found your canvas. It’s a beautiful canvas filled with so many colours. You have put all of them together. | always used to say, ““What’s this dirty canvas doing here?” And you always said, “It’s LOVE,” and we argued about it. It makes no sense, and it looks disgustingly beautiful. I did stare at it for a good while, and I didn’t get it until I did. It said, “Stuck at times, but okay.” It said, “Paused and replayed.” It said, “Beautiful and disgusting.” It said, “Love and pain.” It said, “ME and YOU.” I don’t know how you did it, but yeah, you did.

I meet a lot of new people now. I’ve lost touch with most of the old ones; I just don’t want to see them. They remind me of things I never forgot. So, new people it is. | find most of them boring or annoying, but maybe that’s just me. I still write, and I try to understand your paintings. I wish I’d asked what they meant when you were here; it would’ve been easier. I’m not good at analysing them, but I’m getting better. | try to redecorate the house, but every time I start, something breaks. Maybe I’m not good at it, or maybe it wants to stay as it is.

Conversations have become stranger over time. People offer me sympathy | don’t want. ] don’t want pity, nor do I need reminders to feel the loss I live with every day. | try, and I keep trying. I celebrate you, but others remind me that you are not around. And well, that’s that. I’m trying to say everything, but I keep forgetting things. Sorry if this letter is long—don’t get bored.

I move around alone now. It’s much nicer and more peaceful, I like to imagine you enjoy your own company too. It’s just that I don’t enjoy mine as much. I guess you made me look better.

You know, losing someone feels like your heart is being torn apart, shattered, kicked—anything that brings pain is that. They say time will heal. That time will gather all my pieces and put me back together. I’m waiting for that time, and at the same time, I dread it. If healing means taking even a piece of you, of your memory, or us from me, then I don’t want it; I just don’t. My pain is mine. I’ve learned to store it, to hide it. Ask the walls and pillows about my tears. The walls have watched, and the pillows have felt too. Cringe-worthy? Well, you can handle a little of it. | wish none of this had happened, wish you were here, wish we had more time, wish my tears wouldn’t hurt this much, wish I didn’t fake my smiles, wish all these wishes could come true.

I’m out of words and somehow still full of them. Hope you liked this. I’ll come back next year with more to say. And also, people think I'm crazy for reading this to a stone for hours now. Even if you can’t hear it, I'll keep it here. Read it if you want.

End, I guess? I don’t like endings, so do it the way you'd like.

And also... Askar, your Dirty Canvas is LOVE.