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Do you remember how much we used to talk when we were kids? States apart, no close friends but each other; I’d press the old home phone to my ear and suddenly, I wasn’t so alone.
I used to wander the backyard while we talked. I’d lay on the fallen pine tree, needles prickling my skin while we talked about Zelda and Pokémon until my throat hurt. The summer air was warm and cozy, the breeze cool. I’d come inside smelling like Christmas, arms and legs itchy from mosquito bites.
And we’d still be talking. Every day. You were part of my world. When I wrote the story of my future in my head, you were always part of it.
I’m not sure exactly when I fell for you. I’d never felt anything like it before. Seeing your great big smile on my iPhone screen, the way your eyes crinkled and your cheeks dimpled—it never failed to get my heart racing. I never had the right words back then; I was all shaken up and jumbled, like three boxes of different puzzles strewn across the floor.
You told me you liked me first. I remember smiling so hard that my face ached. I sat on my neighbor’s rickety wood swing set, riding the high. I felt so wanted by you. My stomach fluttered at the thought of the next time we’d meet, a brisk fall afternoon in your backyard while Thanksgiving dinner was cooking. I pictured your fingers interlocking with mine, and suddenly all those jumbled puzzle pieces fit into place.
Long distance was hard. It was so easy to say the wrong thing. Neither of us knew what to do with our feelings—we just had them. Doing anything with them was a point of no return; we couldn’t keep being “just friends”. And every time we’d meet after that, the tension was a miasma that we’d have to wade through, corroding our bond like acid the longer we spent in it.
I was scared. I couldn’t handle it.
I think I broke your heart.
Whatever was left between us died a slow death. Bitterness seeped into us like venom. The visits were uncomfortable, the calls got shorter. We argued more. It’s only natural that we drifted apart, but I felt responsible. I thought I drove a knife into us and twisted until we bled dry.
Old tally marks, white and pink and purple, still remind me of the hate I carried inside. My head, swimming and dizzy, ear red and ringing from blow after heavy blow. A handful of half-dissolved pills splashed inside a toilet bowl, mixed with fresh bile.
I got tired of hurting, so I hurt you instead. No kitchen knives or white-knuckled fists or amber vials—just words.
The last thing I said to you was “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
I’m in a new backyard. More pine trees now. It’s quiet; the deer like to visit in herds, nibbling bits of corn or apples left out for them. I found my missing piece; I married him in this backyard. I wish you could’ve been there to see it.
I’m better now. I’m kinder to myself. And I’m finally healing.
I wonder if you’re healing. I know you’re out there, somewhere, living a life that I’m no longer part of. I want so badly to call you like I used to, to talk for hours until my phone is too hot to hold. I want to know every little detail about all the things I’ve missed. But I can’t. And I know I shouldn’t.
We’re better off apart. But I still think about you.