Dear D,
You won’t be reading this because I won’t ever send it to you - I know you’re dyslexic and I don’t want you to have to struggle through this explanation of my feelings.
But I still want to write down what you’ve meant to me. I hope that one day I'll have the chance to tell you, face to face.
You told me once that I was the first person you met when you moved here, and that I introduced you to most of the things that you do now in this town. That made me feel very happy because other friendly people did that for me too, when I came here, and I vowed I would always try to do the same for other newcomers.
When I heard that you’d been a stage manager long ago, I immediately asked if you’d join our amateur dramatics group here, to share your experience with us. You were such a help, with technical advice and encouragement and inspiration.
I wasn’t very experienced in the practicalities of what goes on backstage, but when I directed Calendar Girls at the local theatre it was a big hit - very largely because of you, because you took the photos for the calendar, you worked out the lighting and sound and showed me how to ‘call the show’ by relating those instructions to the stage crew. Beforehand, we shared the trials and laughs over endless coffees, and then celebrated the triumph with a bottle of champagne - your very generous present.
I really enjoyed comparing notes on the theatre shows and concerts we went to together, and chatting to you about anything and everything. For a couple of years, we swapped birthday and Christmas presents, kept each other up to date on what we were doing if we couldn’t meet up for a while. I thought of you as my best mate.
Then everything changed, and I still don’t really understand why. I think a whole series of events happened close together that made you feel people were taking advantage of your technical skills, asking too much of you, not remembering to make proper allowances for your health problems. Suddenly (or so it seemed to me) you resigned from the Amdram group and other organisations I had introduced you to. I apologised to you, profusely, for anything I might have done or said that contributed to your feeling so disenchanted with everything and everyone.
You left town, and we heard you were working elsewhere.
You didn’t reply to a couple of emails I sent you, closed your Facebook account and nobody heard from you, so I didn’t contact you any more because I didn’t want you to feel hassled. I questioned myself. Had I been over-friendly?
If you didn’t want it, was it time to move on from this friendship?
But I was so sad and confused about what had upset you, and I wondered if maybe I hadn't known you as well as I thought. Was there more going on in your life that you hadn’t told me about - physical or mental health problems that I hadn’t tried hard enough to understand?
After you disappeared, when I did things by myself that we used to do together, I missed you.
I heard through the local grapevine about four months later that you were back in town, and every time I saw someone in the distance that might be you, my heart leapt a little. If I did come face to face with you, how would I start the conversation? Would you even want to talk to me? I felt sad to think that you might be avoiding all your old haunts, because you didn’t want to meet up with any of your old acquaintances.
Then yesterday, as I queued up for the ferry, you were standing right in front of me in a queue, talking to someone else. For a moment I hung back, unsure. But when you sat by yourself on the ferry, I plucked up my courage and said hello. We chatted for the whole journey like nothing had happened. I even suggested we share a taxi to the folk night you were interested in. I texted you later to suggest I buy the tickets, but no reply. Have I overstepped those fragile, new, and as yet unspoken boundaries? I would like to re-negotiate our friendship, if that’s what you want. But I'll wait for you to decide. I’ll respect your boundaries, and you.
Your friend, I hope …
J