It was a Saturday morning where I was walking around the streets aimlessly without any intention or plans to do. It was the day where I need to find my own path, without any interruption. I went to a coffee shop to find your usual private seat empty. I was recalled with those memories there. So, my body brought me to sit there and ordered a cup of caffe latte.

 

Reminiscence. That was the first word to describe things that I saw and felt here. So many that I can’t count them with my own fingers. Lots of memories I spent together with you. From the first time as a stranger, until the time you went away – somehow left me puzzled in several of thoughts and expectations.

 

I put out my novel book and a pencil on the table, as I began to write mini notes on the empty pages in the earlier and last pages – a note that linked with my thoughts of the things that have bugged my mind since I felt something after I went here.

 

“Remembering the past that I used to do, and I can’t forget that.”

 

“Those memories became somewhat too precious – reminiscences that make me feeling crushed after that person left.”

 

“You were like a cup of eiskaffee that fills my day. But since that day before your birthday, your presence went away, and now my life tastes like a cup of trifflo.”

 

I observed what my writings feel to me – the feeling was too much burdened. My caffe latte now tastes bitter – the milk that contented in it was nothing to me, as if it was an americano – espresso and hot water.

 

It feels empty now. The life that I used to be with me has scattered. What’s the use to hold it, I wondered. The way it goes was too cruel – why it must be you out of all people? I just don’t know what to do when I knew the news. It’s just too much to handle, that I broke down on the floor.

 

The table was still messed with plates, glasses, ornaments, and your book. My hand found its way to hold the ornament that you gave years ago – a white-orange tiny ceramic cat. I held it many times and sometimes gazed onto it. Then, I stared the chair that you used to seat on when we have hangouts or meetings there. This place has too many stories of our friendship.

 

Your camera was still there too, on the tripod and stood not too far from the place where I sat. It was turned off, unfortunately. But, the box was somewhere – that I’m sure not far from it. The viewer was still opened. I thought once again, ‘Do you left your footnotes here? I was sure that these things were bought away from here.’

 

I was stunned when I saw your favorite book – “And Our Faces, My Heart, Brief as Photos” – was still in front of your seat. I stood up and shuffled to your table to take the book and began to examine it. I went from pages to another until I found the last page to stare at your notes. They were written:

 

“I've reached the point where I hardly care whether I live or die. The world will keep on turning without me, I can't do anything to change events anyway.”
― Anne Frank, The Diary of a Young Girl

 

Every story always has the last sentences to end the breath. Every life ends in a place called death. The pain that I’ve been held so long has gone away. It was unbearable that I can’t get myself happy. The pain has gone worst to its limit. My body can’t stand anymore, because I guess God has called me to join with Him.

To the ones that read this, I guess that this is the last goodbye from me. Thank you for being in my life for so long.

 

I cried silently as I read the words that you wrote. My heart ached a lot because you never told me what has happened with you and I regret to know this truth sooner. You pretended that you can bear the pain – you’re looked fine. How come can you hide this from me for too long?

 

Something caught my attention from your book. A bookmark that was quoted from the Bible.

 

“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes and death shall be no more; there will no longer be any mourning, crying, or pain for the old orders of things have passed away.”

• Revelation 21:4

 

It grasps me that I need to let you go. I realized that if I can let you go, you’ll be in peace. “I guess this is the last time that I still hold you, even after you’ve died. In the end, someone has to let go another, am I right? Um, thanks for being in my life too, friend. May you rest in peace with God in Heaven,” I whispered to nothing.

 

As I packed and cleaned the things that messed on the table, I saw your favorite flowers – Rose and Baby Breath – were put inside the vase, still fresh by condition. As I thought that this is the last time I was mourning by your death and moved on, I continued to pack my things and drank my coffee until it’s empty.

When I was going to exit from this place and bought your camera and tripod, I don’t know if it’s your voice whispers to me or it’s just my hallucination – because it says:

 

“Thank you for letting me go. Goodbye to you, too.”