I was there; from the start, from the planning, the searching, the completion. Every step of the way, I was there. In every little detail of the journey, from what bus she’s taking, what time she’s going, what flight she’s taking. The ever supporting best friend, the confidante, the adviser, and the one who chooses in the end when she couldn’t decide between the blue or the black dress. I picked out the dress she was going to wear to her send off party. I chose the jumper and the coat she was going to sport on the day she’s boarding that plane. I was the one who checked every single thing on her luggage. I was the one who complained with the number of bags she’s taking. I was the one who checked everything before she locked her bags, the one who knew where she put everything and where to find everything. I was the one who brought her bags outside and helped place them inside the trunk of the taxi. I was the one who stood outside the door to wave her goodbye. I was the one she said good bye last but forgotten to hug because the driver was honking his horn.

I was there.

Yet all those times, I never really thought about what was going to happen after D-day. You know after all the plans and the tickets and the excitement and the parties. It never occurred to me what life has to offer the day after everything happened.

She always laughed it off when few weeks back our friends started to tease me about being lonely, about crying myself to sleep when she’s gone. I laughed with her. I even joked with them. It will never happen. I told them that. It seemed so ridiculous at the time. Because, why would I do that? We’ve only known each other for four months. Well, longer than that, but we were just acquaintances then. But those last four months, we’ve become inseparable, attached to the hip. Her friends became my friends and my friends became hers.

I wake up to her messages before she goes off to work, we text each other throughout the day about what we’re doing, and we say goodnight to each other before going to bed. We spend our days off work together. We’ll just curl up on the couch and watch our favourite show for hours. I cook for her and she had to endure my experimental cooking. We do sleepovers, planned or unplanned. And most of the time she lives in my room that I would never walk around half dressed ever again.

I can’t explain how it happened, but she has injected herself into my life so deep that now that she’s not here, I have this dull ache in my chest. Not knowing what this is I’m feeling. I’m having thoughts of her every second that passes. Every little thing reminds me of her. I had to stop myself from sending every single cute dog/puppy photo I see on Facebook because I know how she loves them.

I waved her goodbye this midnight, and we never stopped messaging each other until we both had to sleep. I woke up with her asking me if I’m awake. We went through the whole morning talking about anything and everything happening around her while I was lazing in my bed.

I was there yet again on the bus station, on the bus ride with her. I was there when she checked in her luggage, when she had her breakfast, when she was complaining of how sleepy she was and I had to remind her not to doze off until she get on the plane. I was there when she waited by the gate, when she complained about the long line. I was there when she got pissed because she forgot to ask for a better seat and how she’s stuck right in the middle on an international flight. I was there when she read the menu for the whole trip and how I told her how it because they didn’t serve any cake and she said it was fine because they had ice cream. She never really liked cake that much.

I was there when she finally had to turn off her phone and for take-off and she had to say goodbye for now. I have to wait until she’s on again and to check if she’s safe. I scramble to my phone whenever it beeps and wish it was her. I can only pray and stare at my wall wishing I was on the seat next to her.

Yet I was there with her. She had taken my heart and mind with her. And here I am in my room, counting the days when she’s going to be back. Oh how I cursed myself for doing so. Twenty five days never seemed so long.

And it’s only day ONE.

But hey, I would never tell anyone about this, even her. That’s why I’m writing this. You better not tell anyone. This will be our little secret. Deal?