What I've Been Meaning to Tell You

By: Susanne Krenz

I remember those days in the foggy Scottish capital. I think of them often. It was the second half of the year. You were by far the coolest kid in class with your Doc Martens and your colourful contact lenses. To my anxious eyes, your quiet confidence was bordering on intimidating. It took me some time to work up the courage to talk to you. When I finally did—after one particularly long Friday spent in lectures—I felt nervous, like I was asking you out.

We became partners in crime almost immediately, bonding over a mutual sense of alienation. You were the first friend I had made in years. I still spent weekends crying over lost love, although the pain bubbled up less frequently with each passing month. Before the snowstorms came, days would often be as dark as nights. We embraced them for what they were with zen-like acquiescence, still harbouring the arrogance of youth. We would hang out in pubs and dingy basements, share cigarettes in windy alleyways and proceed to take home vicious boys (then suffer even more vicious hangovers).

By November, I rarely had my hot chocolate without whiskey or my sex without wrung-out despair. I may not have been happy; I may not even have been free, but with you by my side, I felt staggeringly invincible. There was never a need for explanations. Whenever I had (once again) thrown oil into the fire, your mere presence would soothe my soul. I know you understood. I want to thank you for that.

You will have my heart always.