It’s interesting to think about how we make people who used to be everything into nothing again. How we learn to forget. How we force forgetting. What we put in place of them in the interim. The dynamics afterward always tell you more than what the relationship did — grief is a faster teacher than joy – but what does it mean when you cycle out to being strangers again? Because you never really stop knowing each other in that way. Maybe there’s no choice but to make them someone different in your mind, not the person who knew your daily anxieties and what you looked like naked and what made you cry and how much you loved them.
When our lives revolve around someone, they don’t just stop revolving around them even if all that’s left is the grief and pain that comes with their memory. Because you loved them, there will always be parts of them that linger. The memories that are impressed on the places you went and the things you said and the songs you listened to will remain. We all eventually find ourselves standing in the checkout line, hearing one of those songs come on and realizing that all of a sudden, we’re revolving around them again. And maybe we never stopped.
Do you ever really forget your lovers’ birthdays, or all your first times, intimate and not? Do your anniversaries ever become normal days of the year again? Are the things you did and promises you made ever really neutralized? Do they become void now that you’re broken up or do you decidedly ignore them because there’s simply no other choice? The mind tells you to go on, and forces your heart to follow suit I guess.
I want to believe that you either love someone, in some way, forever, or you never really loved them at all. That once two reactive chemicals cross both are changed. That the wounds we leave in people are sometimes too raw to risk falling back into them. I don’t want to believe that we write each other off because we simply don’t matter anymore. I know love isn’t expendable. I wonder, and maybe hope, if we ever just force it to be out of that necessity.
Maybe it’s just that we’re all at the centers of our own little universes, and sometimes they overlap with other people’s, and that small bit of intersection leaves some part of it changed; that’s where we grow together. The collision can wreck us, change us, shift us; sometimes we become eternally undetachable and connected and other times we decidedly move away because the change required to accept another person’s universe colliding with yours is a safety we don’t want to leave. Either way, it’s inevitable that your universe expands. That you’re left knowing that much more about love and what it can do, and the pain that only a hole in your heart can bring. Whether or not that hole will ever again include the person who made it that way, that’s for you to decide.
We all start as strangers. The choices we make in terms of love are usually ones that seem inevitable anyway. We find people irrationally compelling. We find souls made of the same stuff ours are. We find classmates and partners and neighbours and family friends and cousins and sisters and our lives intersect in a way that makes them feel like they couldn’t have ever been separate. And this is lovely. But the ease and access isn’t what we crave. It isn’t what I’m writing about right now. It isn’t what we revolve around after it’s gone. We are all just waiting for another universe to collide with ours, to change what we can’t ourselves. To fill us, to make us whole. It’s interesting how afterwards, we realise that the storm returns to calm, but the stars are always changed and we don’t choose whose collisions change us. We all start as strangers. But we forget that often, the only thing we do choose is who ends up a stranger too.
(Solely Adapted from: How The People We Once Loved Become Strangers Again
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