Where did you go?

If we were having coffee, you don't know just how happy I would be. I'd tell you everything that had happened since you left. I'd tell you about how I graduated, and I think that you would be proud of me because I remember you were always there, in the darkest moments, telling me not to give up. Telling me that I mustn't give up. Well, it all worked out in the end for me.

If we were having coffee, there would be so many questions I'd ask you. Why didn't you say something sooner? Couldn't you see that I felt the same way, I was just shy, or scared, or whatever excuse I made to myself? I'd ask you, why were you so quiet about your own personal life? We were so close, but I now realize that it was mostly just me, taking all this support and love from you while barely giving anything in return.

If we were having coffee, I would ask you what you were doing the day you vanished from our lives. You were usually so careful driving, so why did they find your car wrapped around a tree on the side of the mountain road? You must've survived- they didn't find a body, just blood on the windshield. Yes, they didn't find you dead, but they didn't find you alive, either. The trail of blood drops led into the woods, but the trail ended not far from your car.

If we were having coffee, I would ask you where you went? People think that you ended up falling into the reservoir and they just didn't find the body. Officially, you were declared missing, but most everyone thinks that you're dead. If anyone suggests otherwise, people smile vaguely and say some shallow platitude- basically saying that there is no hope that you're alive, but it's a nice thought.

If we were having coffee, I would ask you where you went. I would ask you about how you were so withdrawn in the weeks leading up to the car accident. Was it something we did? Something I did? When you crashed, did you just take the chance to leave? As disoriented and injuried as you were, did you just walk away from everything?

If we were having coffee, I'd tell you how much I missed you. I'd be sure to pay for your drink, and give you all the support you gave me and all your friends, all the support that you never got back in return. I want to see you again, and sometimes when I am having a cup of coffee alone in our old study spot in the cafe, I imagine you're sitting across from me, about to ask me, "are you sure about no. 24?". The thought alone makes me smile. That's what I imagine it would be like.

If we were having coffee.