Dear Morife,

I had been searching for you longer than I even knew. And I only realized that when you told me your name. I have found love.

But there’s a certain kind of loneliness that comes from not being able to find yourself. It’s like being lost in a fog of who you’re meant to be, never able to find your way through. Like searching every day for the sound of your own voice calling your name but never hearing it clearly enough to follow.

And I hope you know—I loved you. I have loved you since the day I found you. And I hope you find love, a love that rivals all the wonders that you are. I hope you find peace, joy, and everything good this world has to give.

17 June 2012

I never forgot how we met.

A week earlier, it was dark out, and you were walking alone. You always seemed to be alone. Maybe that’s why I did it. Maybe because it was dark, and I was sure you couldn’t see me. So I called your name.

"Adosila."

You turned around, searching. But you didn’t see me.

It went on like that for the rest of the week. I called your name every time you couldn’t see me. Then, one night, you were standing right in front of me. And for the first time, I felt caught.

"You’re my stalker." You had walked up to me, grinning.

"I heard you talking and recognized your voice. That’s some messed-up stalker behavior you’ve got going on—calling my name and running away every time."

I was shocked. I was sure you had never seen me. But I never considered that you’d recognize my voice.

I expected you to be angry. But you weren’t. You were smiling ear to ear, looking at me like this had been some kind of delightful game for you. That should have been the first red flag.

"What’s your name?" you asked.

"Morife," I answered.

You tried to say it and failed.

"Just call me Momo. That’s what everyone calls me."

"What does it mean?" you asked, ignoring my offer.

"Morife. I have found love."

Your eyes lit up.

"Morife," you said again, perfect this time—not like you were saying my name, but like you were making a statement. Like you were telling me.

I remember those early days, how easily I got swallowed up by you. You didn’t make it hard. You were intoxicating. I would sit and listen to you speak, getting lost in your words, lost in the soft, tender baritone of your voice. Lost in you.

A year had passed. And now you were gone.

I found you in the bathroom. You were sitting in the tub, soaking in water dyed red. A song played on repeat from the speaker—I knew it. Gonna Love Me by Teyana Taylor. Of course, you would set a scene for your death.

The autopsy said you cut your wrists and stayed in the tub to bleed out.

In your letter, you apologized. Said you were sorry. Told me not to blame myself. Told me not to run from love. Told me to be happy.

I’m sitting here now, surrounded by your clothes, soaking in the smell of you. Wondering how I’m supposed to do any of that. How I’m supposed to be happy. How I’m supposed to love when you died with all of my love.

You should have talked to me. You should have let me help. I should have tried harder. I knew you were hurting.

Sent.

19 December 2013

It had been raining all day.

I hated the rain more these days. Something about it always pushed you into my head. Not like you ever really left.

Finally, I got up from the bed, where I’d spent most of my day. Walked to the window. Looked up at the gray clouds. You loved the rain.

I turned around and caught my reflection in the mirror. I hated everything I saw—my breasts, which felt too big for me. The overgrown cornrows in my hair. The rolls in my stomach. My FUPA. My body, which felt more like something I carried than something I lived in. My eyes settled.

"Good pum pum deserves shelter."

"Morife."

I turned around, searching the room, even though I was sure I was alone.

But I know it’s you.

I’ve heard you call my name every day since that day.

Sent.

30 September 2019

I’m watching him run around after his ball.

He’s just six, and he already looks so much like his father. "He looks just like his father." That’s what everyone says.

He has his father’s eyes. His father’s chocolate caramel skin. I know he will sound like him, too.

When he smiles, I see his father’s face.

He is his father’s copy.

So I named him after his father.

Adosila.

Sent.

THE END.