Every evening I would come to the same spot and watch the trains go by, sitting for hours, absently passing the time. All was uneventful before I met him. My friend.
He was very amusing to me, talkative too. He regularly told me about his day, his problems, struggles, but even so, he never seemed worried. How he always spoke in such a positive light, was beyond me.
He usually tells me that it's because of something called hope. Hope that he always had something better to look forward to down the road. I did not quite understand.
It became routine. I would go to the spot on top of the hill, and wait for my friend to arrive. He would talk and talk endlessly, but this was fine with me, I did not mind listening.
But things have changed since then. I have not seen my friend in a while. I still come to the spot to wait for him; this is how I spent most of my evenings. But he never shows up anymore. How many times will I have to pretend that he's here?
I often have this feeling. I believe he called it hope? However, I had nothing good to look forward to. This hope only made the pain worse. He once also told me that you can't measure sorrow, but mine measures at 23 inches high, 84 long, and 28 wide — The dimensions of his casket.
My friend wasn't coming back any time soon.