I have always longed to be known, truly known, by another human being. Sometimes we live for years with yearnings that we cannot name. (Excerpt from CNA's Chuka)

You know, a normal person should be sleeping, but I am up because I have been thinking about the kindness of a girl I got to be close to recently. She has planned to move out of the apartment already. Sometimes, I sit and wonder how this friendship started. What if the first few times she called me a nice name, and we discovered we share a name that only a few people know I have? I didn't smile back and say, "You know, Queeneth used to be my name." I can't tell what will happen after she's gone, but I know her presence has made life beautiful—probably with some sunflowers.

I run, and some people still catch me. They are patient, so they listen to how I say my name and repeat it after me. They ask me where I was schooled and inquire after my parents. I tell them bits about me. Is this not what friendship is about? You leave bits of yourself with people and wonder if you didn't overshare.

I called another friend and told him about this kind person who tried to say my name the right way. They say my name with an accent, and it's only Oluchi, my friend, who said it right the first time. It's pronounced with a longer "ahh." The kind my mother would scream, and my insides would kiss each other. I don't like saying goodbye and blowing kisses to my loved ones, but sometimes they have to go. I am aware that in a couple of years, many people I love will no longer be in the country. The distance can be crazy.

Someday, our conversations still have this familiarity, and I secretly think about the struggles they face being far away from home. I know they wouldn't share it with me, but I hear them, and I pray for them. Sometimes, our conversations are robotic. I struggle to reply properly when they ask how I am, because what if this person had a bad day? I don't think it's proper to put weight on them.

When I said I didn't like blowing kisses to my loved ones, I lied. I want to look into their faces, see how small their eyes are, and put my face on their neck. Smell them for the last time and say goodbye. You should try that. I don't know much about parting, yet it keeps happening.

Until the day she leaves, I will sit with her in silence and listen to her talk about how carefree I am, tease me about everything, and not respond to her questions about my folks. There are bits I no longer wish to leave with people, but I hope they remember me, even if only in a flash. I don't think I'm a forgettable person. I try not to be that way with those I genuinely love.

This is the question: how do you know you genuinely love anybody? My heart is large, and I know what love feels like. I have to love you so well to stay in a room with you for more than an hour. There's an uneasiness I feel when sharing physical space with strangers. I want to hold you kindly and ask you questions about how you're doing. I just remembered that I can't exactly say how I know I genuinely love, but I remember all the people I love, and I know they are my lovers. My friends are my lovers, and even though we don't talk often or at all, I have tears gathered in my eyes, and a small-sized phlegm stuck in my throat when I think of their kindness. The yearning never ends. It draws us in until the day we breathe our last and forget we ever lived.