I Miss You Frank Like I Miss Myself

Memories of youth, with their profound echoes and bittersweet losses, continue to shape our understanding of life's fleeting moments and the deep, lasting connections they forge.

Frank Ocean's Blonde Cover Art, shared via Dazed. © All rights belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended.

“We’ll never be those kids again.”
A simple sentence, tossed out casually, yet so full, so heavy, so dense—can an entire life fit into seven words?

But which kids? The ones we didn’t know we were, I suppose. Reckless, fearless, self-destructive, tragically beautiful, alive, ruthless, tender, naively arrogant, righteous, brotherly, thoughtful—not carefree, as the past is so often mistakenly portrayed. In love with life, with discovery, with deception, with every kind of thrill. Energetic, sharp, clever, quick, impatient. Free in spirit, and sometimes, by chance or luck, even in practice.

What did we think about? Day by day, one day at a time, we thought it would last forever. We thought we were strong enough. We thought we wouldn’t get hurt. We thought we were special—and maybe, in our own way, we were. But then again, who isn’t?
We thought, “We’re not like them.” “But who are they?”, an Italian genius once wrote, and the answer to that universal question was always the same: “the others”. We thought we could win a war, just the two of us, against the rest of the world.

Yesterday, at the cinema, I heard a young starlet utter these words: “gli amori giovanili non servono a niente” (“youthful loves are useless”). My heart skipped a beat, lighter than before, as if a small breath had deflated a thought I’d carried for years. Finally expressed, through someone else’s words, it no longer belongs to the earth but soars into the heavens. And in its release, it sets me free.

“I thought that I was dreaming when you said you love me. The start of nothing.”
The beginning of nothing, the beginning of nothing, the beginning of nothing. I must repeat it three times—pardon me—as I gather my thoughts to honor that sweet, premature death. My youth, my young departed, a life cut too short, how are you doing over there? Are you as free as you dreamed of being? Do you love? Are you loved? Are you still angry? And at me? Have you forgiven? Have you been forgiven? Have you forgotten me? Where are you?
I’m sorry, you know—it’s painful to lose touch. But maybe it’s better this way. And if it’s not better, then let it at least be right. How foolish to imagine you here, to chase after you, to seek you out in the night. To not sleep, like we once did, effortlessly.

"Do you believe it?"
"Believe what?"
"That it’s all over."
"Did we have a choice?"
"There’s always a choice."
"Lie."
"Still doing that? After all these years?"
"Do I really have a choice?"
"Of course you have a choice, for God’s sake!"
"So naive."
"What are you so afraid of?"
"This ending."
"Do you miss me?"
"Terribly."
"You’re the one who left me."
"I know."
"It was inevitable."
"I know."
"What will you do now?"
"I don’t know, I don’t have much of a choice."
"Again?"
"What are you thinking about?"
"How beautiful we were."
"Do you remember?"
"It’s all I have. But you—you’re free now."
"Free? Free from what?"
"From everything, at least from me."
"Will I ever be?"
"You already are. Let me have a smoke."
"Didn’t I tell you? I quit."
"See? That’s not like you. Good. Now go."
"Can I come back to see you?"
"No, never again."
"Goodbye, my sweet youth. Will we ever meet again?"
"One day, beyond love, there’s a world waiting for you. Here, we’ll be those kids again, forever."