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Sonder
Sonder
Sonder...
Standing in a crowd of strangers, I'm suddenly reminded of someone who has become my very own stranger.
My mother still occasionally mentions your name, and I probably would've completely forgotten about you if not for my old green journal.
Which is funny, because thirteen-year- old me would've done anything to know everything about you.
In fact, he did.
He knew your favourite colour. He knew your favourite season. He knew who your favourite artist was. He knew about all the silent pains and struggles you carried.
The only thing he didn't know was whether you actually liked him back.
Regardless, he spent so much time and effort trying to make himself easy to love, only to grow up and forget that you ever existed.
The most painful realization wasn't that you'd leave his life.
It was knowing you'd become a stranger whose laugh he'd still recognize from a mile away.
It wasn't in all the tears he shed in your name, nor was it in the names of the people you chose to love.
It was all the time he'd spent trying to learn the inner workings of someone who never needed to be understood.
It wasn't heartbreaking.
But it truly was bizarre how, just a few years ago, you were his whole world— and now you don't even occasionally cross his mind.
Standing in a crowd of strangers,
I realize that I still know your favourite colour. I still know your favourite season. I still know your favourite artist was. I still know all the silent pains and struggles you carried.
I still don't know if you liked me back— and perhaps I never will.
But what I do know is that sonder is the realization that every stranger has a life of their own.
I just never expected that one day you'd fall into that category for me.
But none of that matters anymore, because now, all you are is...
A stranger
I would've once given everything up for.
Sonder
Sonder...
Standing in a crowd of strangers, I'm suddenly reminded of someone who has become my very own stranger.
My mother still occasionally mentions your name, and I probably would've completely forgotten about you if not for my old green journal.
Which is funny, because thirteen-year- old me would've done anything to know everything about you.
In fact, he did.
He knew your favourite colour. He knew your favourite season. He knew who your favourite artist was. He knew about all the silent pains and struggles you carried.
The only thing he didn't know was whether you actually liked him back.
Regardless, he spent so much time and effort trying to make himself easy to love, only to grow up and forget that you ever existed.
The most painful realization wasn't that you'd leave his life.
It was knowing you'd become a stranger whose laugh he'd still recognize from a mile away.
It wasn't in all the tears he shed in your name, nor was it in the names of the people you chose to love.
It was all the time he'd spent trying to learn the inner workings of someone who never needed to be understood.
It wasn't heartbreaking.
But it truly was bizarre how, just a few years ago, you were his whole world— and now you don't even occasionally cross his mind.
Standing in a crowd of strangers,
I realize that I still know your favourite colour. I still know your favourite season. I still know your favourite artist was. I still know all the silent pains and struggles you carried.
I still don't know if you liked me back— and perhaps I never will.
But what I do know is that sonder is the realization that every stranger has a life of their own.
I just never expected that one day you'd fall into that category for me.
But none of that matters anymore, because now, all you are is...
A stranger
I would've once given everything up for.