The Version of You I Kept

August 14, 2006

Dear Claire,

I’m writing this on the floor of my childhood bedroom because the bed is already gone. Mom says it makes the room look bigger. I think it just makes it look abandoned.

Tomorrow I leave. You’ll still be here when I pass the water tower, when the road narrows, when the town exhales and lets me go. I keep wondering if I should feel guilty about that.

Everyone keeps saying you’re going to do amazing things like it’s a promise instead of a hope. I wish you were here so we could roll our eyes together.

Please don’t let this be the part where we drift.

Love,

Naomi

August 20, 2006

Naomi,

The water tower looks the same. So does your house, even empty. I walked by it yesterday without meaning to. My feet remembered the way before I did.

I start at the grocery store next week. It’s not forever, just for now. Everything here is “just for now,” stacked on top of itself until it feels permanent.

I won’t let us drift. Someone has to stay close enough to shout.

Don’t forget where you come from.

—Claire

Year Two

March 3, 2008

Claire,

I’ve learned how to introduce myself like I belong here. It’s a skill, apparently. You smile, you say your major, you keep your voice steady. You don’t mention how strange it feels to be reinvented by paperwork.

I share an apartment with two girls who talk about networking like it’s a personality trait. Sometimes I pretend I’m like them. Sometimes I lock myself in the bathroom and reread your letters.

Do you ever wish you’d come too?

—N

March 18, 2008

Naomi,

Sometimes. But wishing doesn’t pay rent.

I moved out of my parents’ place. It’s a small apartment above a bakery, and it always smells like sugar and yeast. I like that. I like waking up early and knowing exactly where I’m needed.

I tell people my best friend lives far away now. They nod like they understand. I don’t think they do.

Be careful up there. Big places don’t notice when someone gets lonely.

—C

Year Four

September 12, 2010

Dear Claire,

London is colder than I expected. So are the people, though they hide it better. I walk everywhere, even when it rains, because it makes me feel like I’m part of the city instead of passing through it.

I got offered an internship. It’s unpaid, of course, but everyone keeps telling me it’s a “foot in the door.” I’m learning that doors are everywhere here, and most of them are heavy.

Tell me something ordinary about home. I need something solid.

Love,

Naomi

September 29, 2010

Naomi,

Ordinary, then.

I wake up at six. I work at the bakery now, mornings only. I know which customers want extra glaze and which ones pretend they don’t. I drink my coffee too fast. I watch the same couple argue gently every Thursday.

I’m seeing someone. His name is Mark. He’s kind in a way that doesn’t announce itself. Don’t panic—I haven’t vanished into him.

I like my life, Naomi. I hope that doesn’t disappoint you.

—Claire

Year Six

June 7, 2012

Claire,

I saw your engagement photo online before you told me. I stared at it for a long time, trying to figure out why it hurt.

I’m happy for you. I really am. I just didn’t realize how far away I’d become until your life looked like something I couldn’t step into anymore.

I got a job offer in New York. A real one. With a salary that makes my parents cry on the phone. I should be thrilled. I am thrilled.

Why do I feel like I’m betraying something?

—Naomi

June 22, 2012

Naomi,

I’m sorry you found out that way. I didn’t mean for it to feel like a door closing.

You aren’t betraying anything. People grow. Places stretch. It doesn’t mean we’re wrong.

The wedding will be small. I wish you could come, but I know how your schedule is. I’ll understand either way.

Just promise me you won’t start thinking your life only counts if it looks impressive from a distance.

—Claire

Year Nine

November 15, 2015

Dear Claire,

I didn’t come to the wedding. I still regret that.

New York is loud in a way that never shuts off. I have my name on things now—projects, articles, panels. People ask for my opinion and wait for it. That part still feels unreal.

But when I go home at night, I don’t know my neighbors. I don’t know if anyone would notice if I disappeared for a few days.

Do you ever feel like your life fits you perfectly? Or is that a myth we tell ourselves?

—N

December 2, 2015

Naomi,

My life fits because I adjusted myself to it. I’m not sure that’s the same thing.

Mark and I had a baby. Her name is Lucy. She cries like she’s offended by existence, but when she sleeps on my chest, the world feels quieter.

I think you chose motion because stillness scared you. I chose stillness because motion did.

Neither of us was wrong.

—Claire

Year Twelve

May 9, 2018

Claire,

I’m so tired.

Not physically—emotionally. I keep moving from one milestone to the next, and every time I reach one, the ground shifts again. Success feels like standing on a treadmill set too fast.

I came home last month. I drove past your street twice before turning away. I didn’t know how to knock on a door where I wasn’t sure I belonged anymore.

Tell Lucy I love her, even if she doesn’t know me.

—Naomi

May 25, 2018

Naomi,

You would have belonged. You always will.

Lucy asks why some people don’t live close to their friends. I told her sometimes loving someone means letting them go where you can’t follow.

If you come back again, don’t drive past. Just knock. We’ll figure out the rest later.

—Claire

Year Fifteen

October 1, 2021

Dear Claire,

I’m writing this from an airport. Again.

I keep thinking about the girls we were—the ones who made promises without understanding the cost. We said we’d never change. We said we’d never lose each other.

We were wrong about the first thing.

I don’t think we were wrong about the second.

If I ever stop moving, I hope it’s somewhere close enough to hear your voice without a delay.

With love that hasn’t learned how to shrink,

Naomi

October 14, 2021

Naomi,

Lucy learned how to write her name today. It’s crooked and perfect.

I still keep your first letter in a drawer. The paper’s worn thin, but the words hold.

No matter how far you go, some part of you grew up here—with me. And some part of me kept growing because you left.

That feels like balance, even if it doesn’t look like it.

Come home when you’re ready.

Or don’t.

Just don’t disappear.

Always,

Claire