I’m sitting in a café in an old armchair that is turned towards a window to the gray, rainy street and I lean back and look up at the ceiling. As I sigh, I think about how sitting here studying without them is wrong. It reminds me of our trips to town on Saturday mornings. We’d meet in the hallway between our rooms and walk to breakfast where we’d make our plan for the day. Where we’d start off and when we’d split up for efficiency’s sake. Maria wanted to stop by some clothing store and Helene desperately needed to go grocery shopping. I would be in great need of more yarn. But before all that, right after we’d stepped out of the bus after the hour long ride through the countryside, we’d sit in a coffee shop with our computers, notebooks, and chargers sprawled out on the table we’d claimed in the corner, our half finished coffee cups and muffins scattered in between them.
We always sat down with full intention of doing some productive, uninterrupted studying, but of course that never really happened. As I’ve been sitting here today, trying to complete my own school work, I haven’t been able to stop myself from sending them a text every once in a while. A quick comment on the music the speakers are playing overhead. A question about the conversation during the 3-hour phone call we had yesterday. Something I heard that they’d find funny. Because we could never really stop ourselves from talking to each other for very long. Sometimes we managed to at least keep the conversation on the subjects we were tackling at school. Helene and I would talk about our answers to psychology essay questions and quiz each other on the theory details, then she and Maria discussed their environmental science topics while I finished transcribing my Biology notes from the week, and while Helene worked on her theater project, Maria and I went over different philosophers’ approaches to identity, freedom, or social contracts. Then she’d explain to me what exactly the chapter we’d been reading in class was actually about, because I would rarely catch the gist of Beauvoir’s writing. Every once in a while, we could sit in silence and manage to work individually in our own zones, until the pomodoro timer went off and I’d immediately share a thought I’d had 15 minutes ago and had been storing on the surface of my mind for the last 10.
Yes, I sit in this chair, and I look out at the street, the people walking by, the books on the walls, and the empty muffin wrapper on the table in front of me, and I miss my friends. I miss our babbling in cafés and laughing in one of our twin beds late at night. One time, Helene told us that her roommate had admitted to listening to our conversations sometimes because we were so entertaining when we were together. Despite being slightly creeped out, we thought it was somewhat true, for us, at least. We are never bored around each other. Between us, there is no topic that cannot be touched upon. Yesterday, we talked about one of our hair colors in great detail, and what her next trip to the hairdresser should result in, but that was after our discussion of what we thought our experience at school together had really brought us and the loneliness that creeps into your life after the sudden change in circumstances. I think that most of all, I miss always being in the presence of someone who knows you like the lines in their palm.
It feels strange to walk around in what feels like a different life without them knowing it from the inside. They don’t know what my favorite library looks like, the people I’m around every day, or what exactly I do at work. And I don’t know the people in the stories they tell me apart from the random names I try my best to remember. Or the route Maria bikes to the gym. Or what it’s like to sit in Helene’s car with her in the driver’s seat. Is she a good driver? Would I be nervous? I don’t know. Instead I sit in a café in an old armchair and look up at the ceiling and I just miss my friends.
Comments