IF I COULD…

By Siena Sujitno

Photos by Miles Albright

If I could, I would sit at your feet and listen just a little bit longer. 

I would press my cheek to your hands, tell you that nothing ever 

felt safer. I would tell you I remember— the way your laughter

carried, the scent of espresso rising, never missing a single soccer 

game I played. I would ask you to stay, just a little longer. I would

tell you I still look for you— in the way my fingers trace the rim 

of a glass, button a coat, tuck a loose thread into place. I would tell 

you I carry you, always, that I have learned to love as you did— 

quietly, deeply, without end. 

… 

If I could, I would meet you at the edge of our old street,

where our sneakers once skidded against pavement, 

where we swore,

 we’d never be strangers. I would tell you I remember—

the scraped knees and tangled hair, the way we carved our

 names into the wet bark of an oak tree, the late-night

 talks of  dreams. I would tell you I never thought we’d run

 out of words. I would ask if you remember, too—the secret

 handshakes, the jerseys stained with sweat and grass, the

 way we thought growing up meant growing together. 

But somewhere along the way, the road split and we let the

 silence settle. I would tell you I’m sorry, that I wish I had held 

on longer, that I hope, wherever you are, you are still chasing

 something that makes your heart race.

… 

If I could, I wouldn’t say much. Not because there 

aren’t words, but because I’ve already said too many.

I would not ask if you remember—the late nights that 

felt like borrowed time, the way we mistook gravity for 

love, the way we held on, as if holding on could make

it real. I would not tell you I miss you, because I don’t. 

Because love, the right kind, does not leave you hollow,

does not make you question the shape of your own reflection. 

I would tell you I am lighter now, that the weight of us has 

finally lifted, that I no longer search for you in crowds or 

songs or dreams. I would tell you goodbye, not as a wound

but as a closing door, softly shut, no echo, no looking back.

… 

If I could, I would start at the beginning— small hands in yours, learning the weight of the world through the steady grip of your fingers. I would tell you I remember— the quiet sacrifices never spoken aloud, the way you made a house feel like a home even when the world felt unkind. I would tell you I see you now in ways I didn’t then— in the way I try to love without holding too hard. I would thank you for the things I never knew to name— for patience that stretched beyond words, for showing up even when you were tired, for letting me go even when you wanted to hold on. And if I could, I would say it more often— not just in passing, not just in the quiet moments— but here, now, so you never have to wonder.