When I think of being happy, I think of you. When I think of being sad, of being lonely, of being suddenly and grippingly ecstatic, I think of you. I think of our room, your car, the apartment, our TA, our trips, the long nights, the petty quarrels, the furtive romances, my bed, your clothes, the girls, the boys, the drama and upheaval and turmoil, the bliss, the fights, the ridiculous games, the invincibility of our hearts, the recklessness, the jealousy, the lonely weekends, the food, the ego, the divisions, the unity, the random excesses, the shy affections, the words that change your life, the awkward silences, the cafeteria, the walks to and from class, the meetings, the elevator, the mess in my car, the feel of your cold hands, the tears at your wedding, the smell of smoke, the concert in Texas, the parties I skipped, the dinners you cooked, the nights in Germany, the love triangles and quadrangles, the smell of cut grass, the color of your hair, the tape in your car, the words I meant to say, the times I failed to be the bigger person, the things we used to think were cool, the wacky personal theories, the misapprehended motives, the girl next door, the fumblings in the dark, the silent treatment, the neglect and distance, the failure to appreciate, the movies, the phone calls, the midnight confessions, the softness of your lips, the grip of your handshake, the head-nod acknowledgement of a deep and lasting friendship, the picture on the wall, the birthday on the beach, the drinks downtown, the notes on my desk, the flatteries and unexpected kindnesses — when I think of all these, I think of you.
It’s not Gainesville that I will miss, nor the past. It is you.
