That, I think, is us

A Story by Kanicolas

I wrote this in a school building with a girl eating salad across from me in a too-hot building with music that didn't match how I felt, but it didn't matter. I was in my head, with you. Always.

You make a blank piece of paper more intimidating. You make me look around and wonder how I could let so many days pass and not totally break down from missing you. You make me stuck.

And I can’t say the words I want to say. It’s just how it is, me and you. A bunch of empty space, and questions and tapping fingers and wondering and watching the days pass and the people go by.

You ask me how I am, and I wonder if you do it out of duty or if you truly miss me.

What if I was someone else? Walked in their actual shoes, felt the swing of their hips, the grip of their fingers, how they hold their head, if they look people in the eyes, if they carry a little extra weight, or not enough, or were tall or small, or had a crooked smile. Because I think of starting new, with you, all the time.

I realize that I won’t remember this day, typing these words, or how tired I felt, or the lyrics to the music I’m listening to or the name of the coffee I’m drinking. But I will remember how I feel.

And that’s how I try to remember you, touching old memories and trying to see through the haziness. I try to discern why you make me so f*****g crazy.

It’s like trying to catch air, absurd and redundant. It’s everywhere, the feeling of what we were. The problem is I can’t feel it like the first time. Just as my first breath isn’t the same as the breath I’m taking right now. And as more days pass, the feeling is slipping into dead air, static.

I don’t remember how you met my lips with yours or how you ran your fingers along my hand or how you held me when I was lost. I can’t remember what it felt like when you made me laugh so hard my eyes were sparkling. I can’t remember when my head was in your lap or when you played with my hair, shakily and unconsciously, so subtly and quick that you stopped.

I don’t remember the way your voice changed when you could hear the hurt in my voice or the way you let the silence sink in so both of us could think. I don’t remember hearing the wheels turn in your head as you selected your words or the way your eyebrows furrowed together when you were confused by me, always confused by me.

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Just like I don’t know what to write next, I don’t know where to go with us next. I don’t know how to be your friend when my bones are jolted by your presence. I’m frustrated by your distraction, frustrated by the anxiety of my every movement, and torn up about the lack of emotion you have when I’m around.

It was only five days ago that pools of that frustration made it’s way around and trampled on my sleep cycle. Not that I ever sleep. Not that I’m obsessed with getting over whatever the f**k we were, not that I’m sick to my stomach at the thought of missing you another second in the day. Not that I wish I could stop writing about you, months after something that was nothing.

Something that was nothing. That’s what gets me ticked. Out of all the boys I’ve been with, no one has ever made me feel something that burned my body and left me with a taste of bittersweetness I couldn’t wait to erase with your lips. And yet, I was an in between for you, absolutely zero in the scheme of things. The truth of the matter is that I live in the U.S., on Earth, in a universe with you. So you should be nothing in the scheme of things, just as I’m nothing to you in the scheme of things.

So you should. And time, existent or not, will cover up some of these wounds, but I know they’ll be gaping every time I catch wind of you, every time I hear you name and mention of you. And trust, they will rip right open if I even dare talk with you.

I think all the time, what do you think of me? I have a general idea that I’m a lesson, a mistake you will never make with another girl, someone who taught you not to mess with a girl’s feelings, not to tell another girl that she wasn’t the average college girl you thought she was.

God, what a girl I am. Writing about you when I could (and should) be doing other things, much more important things. Depressing that I write about such a boring, unchanging, boy like you; someone who will probably have little effect in the world we live in, someone no one else gives a s**t about. Oh and the looks I must get and the thoughts people must have reading this. I can only imagine, I look like a pining, over-dramatic, self-pitying, depressed writer. And not a hot one.

Let them think that. Let them eat cake. What do I care? You didn’t share songs with them, so overplayed on my phone that I know the beginning and ending notes better than my own name. They didn’t get to hear about your trip hiking or see the light in your eyes when you talked about her, your best friend, your ex, the girl you love, and will always love. They didn’t feel my chest heave and jump or feel the unconscious tremble of my arms as they secured themselves around my rattled ribcage. The thought of you puffed my eyelids and drew a constant dichotomy of thoughts: get over him vs. don’t ever forget the way he put a fire in your bones.

Take away all the fluff of my words and thoughts and you get: F**k you. F**k feelings. F**k this love of mine. F**k.

After the hurt, is anger and lots of ‘f**k’. You’d think since we were only supposed to be hooking up I’d remember how many times we did it, or how it felt, or when we did it but I don’t remember a thing. It’s blurry and fuzzy and blank and blocked for reasons I can only guess. Probably because you meant more to me than a key in a lock. But just as I say that, I can also only guess that I was just that to you: I was your cake, eat it and it’s gone. Disposable, empty, sweet but bad for you in the end, not what you need.

So I’ll let you eat cake. What do I care? I’m the one suffering here, wondering if I run away as fast as I can that I’ll go back and take back the secrets I told you, take back my mystery and identity and wrap myself back up, real tight. So you’ll always wonder but never know.

Always wonder but never know. That, I think, is us.