Supernova
Whenever I'm on a plane, I think of Jesse. I think of being hunched over my tray table in my window seat uncontrollably crying for hours on end with Me Porto Bonito and Everybody’s Gotta Live on repeat—the two songs I managed to download to my phone before takeoff, just a short time after I had learned he’d died. I think of tremendous loss. I think our final moments together, eating lunch in Koreatown, both of us so lost and miserable, incapable of reaching one another or understanding one another. Two black holes grasping at fumes.
Jesse, my estranged soulmate, my mirror until the bitter end. Jesse, my college ride or die, my monumental bestie—funny, sassy, blunt, protective, passionate. Jesse, the first person in my life to remind me of my worth, my light, after so much of it had been hammered out and taken from me.
Lunch had been a disaster. I left the restaurant depleted, disheartened. It was painfully clear that the two of us had agreed to meet in hopes of desperately seeking the joy and buoyancy of our former selves. But neither of us were in a position to give, the weight of it all too thick. We would never speak again. At that time, however, I was certain we'd have dozens more chances to sit across from one another in Koreatown. Jesse was supposed to flourish. He was supposed to meet me, match me. He was supposed to be fine eventually. Like I was supposed to be fine eventually.
God how I wish I was the person I am now then. I wouldn't be such a fucking coward. I'd reach across the table and grab his hands in mine and tell him how much I love him, how important he is, how beautiful his eyes are, how rich his voice is, how safe his hugs feel. It kills me to think about how unbearable life must have been for Jesse, how deeply he felt it. Three months before he passed away, as I was standing on a subway platform waiting for my train, I made the decision to reach out. I let him know that I missed him and was thinking of him and suggested we get together soon. I had no idea I was texting a dying star. I’ll never know whether he read my message or surrendered it to the void, unopened, drifting through darkness.
Jesse, my darling, I am sorry we grew apart, I am sorry I was too late. I am sorry I couldn't remind you of your worth when you needed it most. I hate that I didn't know. Your life mattered. You matter still. Your laugh, a long giggle—shaky, nervous, hearty. Always so discerning when it came to who was worthy of hearing it. I loved knowing you'd laugh at my banter unconditionally. Your voice—soothing, resonant, reassuring. You had a very handsome voice. Your presence—warm, fearless, gentle. So tough and self assured when it came to the people you loved. I trusted your presence and your protection more than anyone's. Your brown eyes, the portal to your sweet soul—kind, witty, intelligent, loyal, pragmatic, forgiving, dreaming up what was just and good. Your passion. We shared a mutual passion for passion. I'd never before shared such a wonderful thing with someone. I haven't since.
There is so much to mourn, so much to hold onto, so much to be grateful for, so much to remember. I would have loved to see you again. Damn both of us for not reaching out in time. Love, not a day goes by where I don’t think about your absence from this universe. Your friendship is one of the greatest and deepest of my existence. We were effortless. I will forever honor your life, grieve your death, and remember what wonderful friends we were. I am so lucky to have known you.
