It’s been exactly a week since I hugged my partner goodbye in our apartment in Ho Chi Minh City and, after several hours waiting for a flight that was over in the blink of an eye, found myself reunited with my parents at Suvarnabhumi Airport in Bangkok.
This is not the first time I’ve said goodbye to my partner the morning before a flight—far from it. Before moving in together last year, we were in a long distance relationship for almost 3. So I’m no stranger to that occasionally tearful moment—the lingering kiss, the tight embrace, the last look before the door squeezes shut.
This time around, there were no tears. We even joked that we’re both going to be so busy that three weeks are going to fly by, that we won’t be able to stop long enough to realise we’re missing the other person.
“I miss you”
If we take the dictionary definition of “missing” as “feeling sad that a person or thing is not present,” then I must confess that I rarely miss people. When I moved abroad to study in the UK at the tender age of 17, I didn’t feel sad to be away from my parents. When my partner and I were doing long distance, though there were moments when I was deeply saddened that there was a partner-shaped hole next to me, for the most part I enjoyed my solo Bangkok life. I don’t feel sad that both my maternal grandparents, to whom I was close as a child, are no longer with us.
Being apart from people I care about rarely saddens me. Sure, I’d like to see them. But there is no sadness. There is only being in the here and now.
The second I turn and walk away from someone, my mind—like my body—leaves the person behind. It fills up instead with the tasks at hand—locate my taxi, check-in, immigration, security, boarding. It’s as if I’ve stepped into a different world, a world without them, a world with new priorities and activities and other people to whom my thoughts now turn.
And this world—sans them—pulls me in, envelops me completely.
Strangely, the moments when I feel saddened by goodbyes are the moments leading up to them. The final days, the last evening, the morning before the flight. That’s when I feel sad that I’m about to not see this person. It’s a strange quirk I have: I miss people when I’m still with them, not when they’re no longer there.
So, what do I miss?
But if you take away the sadness component, I do miss things—moments from another time and place that put a smile on my face whenever they cross my mind. Dwelling on these fills me with a deep sense of appreciation for the beautifully rich tapestry of life—for the details that make it worth living.
I miss opening the front door of my host family’s home in Bristol, stepping across the threshold, and savouring my first taste of freedom living abroad.
I miss the morning I woke up to delighted cries of “Snow!” and lifted the curtain to see—for the first and only time—beautiful Oxford covered in a thick, fluffy blanket of pristine white.
I miss my solo trip to Liverpool, going on a long pilgrimage to Melwood and circling the grounds hoping to catch a glimpse of my favourite footballers.1
I miss walking along the River Avon in Stratford-upon-Avon and marveling at its beauty, thinking to myself I must one day return.
I miss sitting at that small café in Berlin while exploring the city during a visit to a dear friend. Sitting there, Taylor Swift crooning a familiar tune in my ears, I felt completely at peace—one with myself and the world.
I miss strolling in Regent’s Park with mom, showing her all the summer flowers in full bloom, my months-long depression briefly lifted.
I miss walking into Icon Klub that faithful evening and seeing my partner—then a stranger—seated on the bar stool nursing a tall cocktail.
I miss the moment when I looked into my partner’s eyes in another darkened bar, just under two months later, and felt for the first time that I’m home.
I miss long, meandering conversations over morning coffees with dad at Starbucks, and giggling like schoolchildren with mom in front of the telly watching our beloved Korean shows.
Now, I miss the dusty road on the 20-minute walk to my gym, zigzagging through supercars depositing tiny humans at the international school.
Now, I miss taking off my earrings and laying my head on my partner’s shoulder as I drift off to sleep.
Now, I miss sneaking up behind my partner as he washes the dishes and giving him a surprise back hug.
These are just a few of the details of my 30-plus years of life that I miss. If I am to write them all out, I’d fill whole notebooks, and there’d still be more.
What do you think?
Mulling over the question “What do I miss?” and coming up with this short list of treasured moments did much to deepen my appreciation for life. These reflections also triggered a strong desire to live every moment fully, from now until the end of my time.
What do you miss?
Do you miss people or places? Moments or memories? Do you feel absence strongly, or do you—like me—miss people before they’re gone?
Send a reply, leave a comment, share this with someone you’ll always miss.
Until next Friday… Stay thoughtful,
Val
Photo by Anastasia Sklyar on Unsplash
I didn’t see anyone, but that in no way detracted from the quasi-religious experience.