The Way It Was

I see on my phone that I’ve gotten a text from a number I recognize as hers. It’s my name, followed by a question mark. I consider the text for a while. Finally I respond.

Yeah?

Can we talk?

Sure, I respond.

We broke up yesterday. I sat in her bed at her place as an unrecognizable version of her told me we’re not dating, but we will again someday. When I got home I gathered up things of hers I still had and took them to her mom’s place. With them I left a note which basically said, yes, I know it’s overly dramatic to be leaving a note, but I want to be clear: we can’t date. We suck.

I don’t want everything yesterday to be the last words we exchange, she texts. Can I go to your place so we can talk?

Okay, I answer. It goes against my this-is-it and never-again declarations from yesterday. But, I’d prefer we say everything we need to now, rather than drudge it up years from now when we’re supposed to be over each other.

When she shows up I ask her where she’d like to sit. My family isn’t home so we can go anywhere. There’s my living room couch, the dining room table, and, I guess, my bed.

If she’s surprised I offered that last choice at all, she doesn’t show it. She chooses my bed. We sit at the edge of it, not facing each other.

“I read your note,” she says.

“Yeah,” I grumble. “It’s dumb, but I mean it.”

“Even the part about it being clear I’m off of my meds?” I wince.

“That’s the one part I do regret writing. But you texted me things like, If I could cry now, I would, after I left. It was kind of scary. That’s not a normal thing to say.”

“I know.” She sighs, frustrated, and looks down at her feet. “I wasn’t really lucid yesterday. I haven’t been lucid a lot lately. It’s kind of scary for me, too.”

Neither of us says anything as we mull the situation over.

I won’t remember what we say next. I won’t remember how it leads to us kissing. I’ll only remember the feeling of restlessness. We pull away from each kiss frustrated — frustrated with how amazing the other person feels, and frustrated with the fact that this isn’t a feeling we can keep. We know we love each other hopelessly; we also know we can never make it work. Every time we get back together it feels incredible for three months, as our own insecurities and mental health issues cancel out the other’s and we make each other better people. After that, though, we get out of sync. Little by little we amplify each other’s problems until we’re both the worst versions of ourselves, mad at the other person and mad at ourselves.

As I place my lips on hers again I know this isn’t reconciliation. It’s last call. I make a request.

“Can we just do one thing?”

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Can we lie together like how we used to? Just for a moment.”

She doesn’t understand what I mean so I direct her. We move onto our sides, facing each other. I entangle my legs in hers. I nestle her head into the nape of my neck as I give her my arm as a pillow. The instant we lock into our positions and hold each other in this way we used to so often, she begins to cry. She remembers this and she’s going to miss it. I’m going to miss holding her like this. Tears also well in my eyes.

In a couple of minutes, when the tears have settled and our composures are regained, she’ll ask again if we’ll end up together again someday. I’ll tell her no and that she should probably leave soon. She’ll get upset, stand up, and remove her shirt. I’ll remove mine, too. We’ll fuck, desperately trying to get more and more out of each other in these final moments. When we’re done I’ll jokingly ask if that was some kind of test; she’ll sombrely say that it was, and I failed. We’ll go out onto my fire escape for a smoke. She’ll call a cab to come pick her up. As we wait for it to arrive I’ll keep expecting us to exchange definitive final goodbyes. We won’t. She’ll continue texting me regularly for a few weeks until I tell her to stop. I’ll drunkenly text her and we’ll reconnect. We’ll hang out and hook up for half a year, the time between our non-dates growing each time. Just when I’ll think we might be back together for sure, she’ll disappear again. She’ll get married. I’ll start this writing project.

But, the moment that’s happening right now is the moment that I think is a good place to stop. It summarizes the entirety of our relationship and finds the perfect balance between our sweetest memories and our bitterest ones. It encompasses everything this writing project is about — it’s embarrassing, overly personal, pretty dramatic, but above all it is fucking honest.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t give you the kind of relationship you wanted,” she sobs into me.

“It’s okay,” I say, choking back my own sobs as I hold her close. “Thanks for being the only person to come close.”

Way It Was is a writing project and ongoing attempt to work through a lot of relationship related shit. Find out more about it here.