Walking up the flights of stairs this late at night is never easy. Of course, I’ve done harder and more tedious tasks in my life, almost none meaning as much as this one. Above the sixth floor of my building, is my roof; equipped with different rocks with different sizes, textures, and colors. Each one tells a story, I know, just like the people I surround myself with everyday.
I began to feel unconditional and undeniable love when I started high school: platonic, romantic, and all other kinds I could surround myself with. I fell in love with each of my friends when we started talking, and when I saw parts of them I knew were for me only. I fall in love with my city and my neighborhood everyday, and sometimes it feels like I have so much love in me that I’ll burst, combust, or die. But love does not wait, and love does not care.
I moved to New York City permanently after years of moving back and forth between here and Jersey City, between my mother and father. After years of moving around and changing personalities while I did so, I finally had a sense of stability in one of the most hectic and busy cities on the planet. Along with a new household and city, I attended a new school, where I met the people I’d love for the rest of my life.
I spent my freshman year hiding behind anyone I could, afraid that if anyone saw me, they’d somehow also see through. A year later, I’d grown used to the people I saw everyday, and began to make friends with the people I’d eventually grow closer to the next year. Again, my senior year, my need to hide and change dwindled as I found a home in the people who cared for me.
The last day of high school might have been one of the hardest days in my short life. Sure, I’ve had hard times, but nothing compares to leaving people behind, or being the person left behind. I signed my friends’ yearbooks with tears in my eyes and shaky breaths, etching my final goodbyes on pages I knew would only be opened again in times of lonely reminiscence. One of my favorite messages, written to a friend I wasn’t as close to by the end of the year, read “I love you. I know it is hard to let go when someone understands and relates to you in ways you can only hope for. I didn’t have to hope! I had you! You gave me comfort in a small forever, so how could I be mad when you’re finally getting the same?”
How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard?
Standing alone on my roof, when the sun sets, and when it’s long gone and the only things left are the moon and faded clouds, I acceede those who mean the world to me. On the steps I take back to the stairs, I attest the people I do not yet know, the people I will love, and will love me. On my way down the stairs, itching closer to my apartment, I move forward, refusing to look back at the light that dances on the rocks behind me.
