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The text blinked up at her, innocent against the glare of a white screen. Angela couldn’t focus on the words. If she didn't see them, they’re not there. It’s not real.
There’s no fixing this, was there? She figured time apart would do them some good – at the very least. Amanda on the other side of the country, Angela here. In LA. Telling herself her heart wasn’t tearing itself apart at the seams.
Sometimes, Angela liked deluding herself. There was just so much of her stuff here. How could she not, when her t-shirts smelled like the fancy apricot hand cream in Amanda’s jeans, when Amanda’s stupid rose teas still sat in Angela’s cupboard, next to the gaudy hoe hoe hoe mug she used to use year-round? Angela would curl up with the massive orca plushie they got in some souvenir shop in Vancouver, pretend it was Amanda in her arms, and she could almost feel the ghost of Amanda’s hands run over her shoulder blades, down her spine, hold her oh so steadily.
It was fine. She was fine. The sleeve of Angela’s hoodie was rough against her cheeks, but she refused to let the heat building behind her eyes drop to her screen. This was pathetic. She’s hot, she’s charismatic, she knew how to charm anyone…even if right now, Angela felt like the smallest piece of gum stuck to the bottom of a trash can. It’s ok. She’d be ok. It wouldn’t be this way forever, and she’d get over Amanda, and they could go back to pretending to be coworkers and nothing would have to change.
Stupid Slack message. Stupid miscommunicated flight. It’s not even as if Angela expected anything out of it. What was another day without Amanda? She spent fifty-five days without her, not that she was counting, or anything. She could do with another day apart. It was fine. She knew better than to expect anything, she knew better to think that they could be anything more than friends, more than strangers, really.
Her phone dims, white turning to grey.
I’m sorry.
The apology tastes like bile in her throat. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry. Once, not too long ago, Angela had curled up with her orca and pressed those words into its fur, tears and dehydration tearing her into delirious pieces. She destroyed a good thing. She pulled herself away from the only person she had ever felt truly in love with, she let the anxiety get too loud, she let other people talk too much, she listened. But she also knows how the patterns repeat themselves. Once, a fluke. Twice, a coincidence. Three times? A pattern. She knows the nights she spent curled up and anxious, the nights she spent devastated at the other end of a poorly-worded text. She knows looking at Amanda, knows teasing Amanda for the way she towered over her and the dimple and the eyeroll she’d get in response, but she also knows nights at the pub, feeling so fucking small next to the showstopper who only called herself Angela’s partner in private.
Angela knows shame. She knows “ theatre kid” and “weirdo” and “understudy”, she knows clawing for ranks and being turned away again and again and again. Her partner was supposed to be a haven from the shame. She knows she’s a bit much sometimes, but even then – surely there were parts of her worth celebrating? Like she’s worth something. Worth something more than a warm body and ill-timed jokes, she knows that, she knows that. Amanda lost her. It’s Amanda’s loss. Angela deserves to be appreciated, to be loved, to be fucking worshipped. She’ll settle for nothing less.
But the way she wants to undo it, some nights. To crawl into those familiar arms and beg to be taken back. To press her cheek to Amanda’s palm, to ask meekly if they could go home, please. She knows happiness – knew happiness, with Amanda. Felt loved. Felt in love. She would have hung the stars for her, fucking corny as that sounded. But.
But the silence.
But being ignored.
But cancelled plans, rainchecks, waiting alone in a fancy ass restaurant because I’m sorry I lost track of time and I’ll be right there and I just woke up.
Feeling small.
Angela swallows, reads over the text one more time. I’m sorry, I confused the dates on my flight and it looks like I’ll be in Boston for another day. I’ll be back the day after!
She’s not upset. She’s not even a little bit affected. It’s fine, she’s fine, everything is fine. It’s just a coworker, after all. Nothing more.
Her time runs out. The screen goes black.