If anyone should make it big, it should be you

A story about a complicated friendship lost to a drug overdose

In the spaces between hand-cranked printing presses, etching inks, and acid baths, I made an unexpected friend. His name was Tim.

We had a complicated friendship. And at 28, he died.

The tactile environment of our university printmaking lab provided the perfect environment for a budding romance. Our afternoons were soaked with the sound of indie bands and rubber brayers kissing ink.

In class, we supported each other’s work. “I get what you’re doing. I think it’s good,” he’d say privately after our group critiques. It was the highest compliment to an emerging artist.

We weren’t exactly best friends in class. We didn’t sit together and make jokes as other friends did. Our relationship was more of silent appreciation, punctuated by glances across the room.

His eyes were black like the new moon’s sky. His laughter held back a dark ocean. When he was nearby, it would feel like the air had been sucked out of the room and the entire world had disappeared except for the two of us.

Our circles of friends never really intersected. He was a hardcore punk musician. I went to bars on the weekends with my other single girlfriends. Yet, we exchanged texts, liked each others’ posts on social media, and occasionally went to see museum exhibits together.

Then, we had one beautiful night.

It started off with a beer at a local pub. We both loved that place, though we had never gone together before. Months of sharing book and movie recommendations and text-flirting in vague emojis had eventually led us here.

Nervous small talk turned to unbound laughter and we found ourselves back at my apartment, going through art books and sharing our inspirations. We talked about our ideas for the future and who we wanted our work to reach. 

I told him the story of how I came to be an artist. He told me about his band. Both of us had uncertainties about our work, but for one night, it felt good to have a partner on that tenuous voyage.

In front of the fireplace where we shared the night, he said, “You’re beautiful.” Simple words can strike powerfully when they are said by someone who sees not just your appearance but all of your indignant past and the impossibility of where you want to go. 

“If anyone should make it big, it should be you.” 

I had never dreamt of making it big. I just wanted to make little posters that made a certain kind of person chuckle. Like whispering a secret or telling an inside joke. I was naively dropping hints inside posters and prints that said nothing more than, “I see you.” 

Make it big? I appreciated the sentiment wholeheartedly but immediately tucked it away into a dusty corner of my mind.

The relationship didn’t go anywhere after that night. His girlfriend came back to town and we remained complicated friends. Over time I found myself hurt and bitter at the lack of definition or closure.

When he died, he died on Facebook. A slew of comments was posted to his page. “Wake up! We love you. Don’t leave us.”

It turns out he was in a coma. He had overdosed.

A few days later, his family made the hard decision to pull the plug. He was already gone. I never got the chance to see him or go to his funeral. I was so far removed. We had no mutual friends.

I scrolled through our text messages on my phone. The last one in particular stood out to me. “I’m going on tour.” And a year later, I still hadn’t responded.

I was angry. Out of pride, I resisted replying. But my feelings seemed inappropriate now. There was no one to be angry at. Tim was gone.

Years after he died, I wrote him a letter and burned it in a campfire. 

I don’t believe that souls ever leave our world. I know that a person’s life energy can never be lost. It may disintegrate, but it reemerges in some other form.

When I’m walking through the desert and the sky is so black I can’t breathe, I know he’s in the thick air. I see him in the bark of old trees and in the wings of the red-tailed hawk. In other obscure relationships, I see ours resurface.

I’ve learned that love can exist without definition or a place in society. You can love and let go, and the memories you shared don’t lose their meaning.

On my own, I would have no desire to make it big or anywhere at all. But I keep pushing forward because people like Tim believed I could.

Tim will never make another piece of art again.

But I can.

And by relentlessly pursuing my ideas, I carry the dreams of the dead with me.