Yimi Lu
Dear B,
I remembered you when I pulled myself out of bed this morning. It was a Monday, the kind I always hope won’t start, but that always comes as promised. The daylight felt thick, like something I had to push through. It felt just like those days when I first met you. Back then, I told you I wanted to go to sleep earlier. I confessed that I stayed up reading Manga until 3 a.m., and how hard it was to wake when I wanted to. You didn’t blame me, not even a little. You said, “Don’t track the hours of sleep. Track the moment you get up.” I tried that. It became easier. I began to get up like that, not every day, but on most workdays. Even now, three years later, I still do.
I remembered you during a project meeting. We were on Zoom, and my coworker from another time zone was explaining a design I didn’t fully follow. I opened my mouth to say something, then closed it without a word. I didn’t want to seem like I wasn’t capable. I stayed quiet for a few more seconds. In that pause, I heard your voice again, the one that once said, “Leading a project is like driving.” I pressed myself into the chair and tried to believe I was the driver. The other person was in the passenger seat. It wasn’t weakness to ask, just like it isn’t weakness to check the map. So I unmuted myself and said, “Can you go over that part again, just so I make sure we’re on the same page?” He nodded right away. It wasn’t a big deal. And for a moment, I wondered why it had felt so hard in the first place.
I remembered you over lunch, chatting with a colleague. We weren’t talking about anything serious, just weekend activities and plans, but I couldn’t find the word I needed. It was a simple one, something I probably use every other week, but it escaped me the moment I reached for it. I stopped. In that small silence, I thought of you. I remembered how you once said it’s hard to work in a second language. I had asked, “How can that be hard? Everyone around me is doing it.” You assured me, “There are many who never learned a second language well enough to work, or to live a life in it.” I still wasn’t able to find the word I wanted to finish my sentence. There was an awkward beat, maybe half a second too long. But the conversation moved on. My colleague didn’t seem to notice. We kept talking. It was a good lunch.
I remembered you when I was debugging a fatal failure. I stared at the data for hours and got nowhere. My neck was stuck in the same position, and my gaze was blurred. It made me feel useless, even after doing everything I knew how to do. Then I remembered what you once called a magic item, the “friend lens.” You said, “Close your eyes. Imagine what your best friend would say to comfort you.” So I used this item. I imagined them saying, “This issue is complicated. If you couldn’t find it in a day, then no one could.” I breathed again, feeling relieved. Not because I had solved anything, but because I stopped thinking it was all on me.
I remembered you when I opened the messaging app, wanting to share all the small things I had done today. I saw the notice: This therapist is no longer on the platform. Underneath, it said, If you need more help, click here. But what I need is not more help. What I need is someone who validates me. I recalled our first session. I was heartbroken. I had just ended a relationship that had lasted six years. You told me it was a loss. When a solid relationship ends, you said, it has to be grieved thoroughly, without a time limit. You said it was normal. I still hold that moment. I guess you’ll never know how much it helped. Now I realize I can no longer talk to you. I begin to feel the pain of that. I start to tell myself: this, too, is the loss of relationship. This time, I will grieve. But this time, I am by myself. This time, I feel stronger. This time, I know there are things I can do, ways to care for myself.
Would you be proud of what I’ve done? Would you smile at me the way you used to?
Love,
L
losing our grip on purpose 