Austin Smith
We started out as friends—not even friends—coworkers. Why couldn’t we have just gone back to that? When I saw her the other night, she reminded me of who I used to be. What does the sight of me remind her of?
Before I pressed the call button below her name, I looked at the picture I had of her on my phone from one of our first dates to the county fair. My smile in it was so much bigger than hers.
“Umm, hello?” she asked timidly. We knew we needed to talk. She was the one who brought it up. Why was there questioning in her voice?
Small talk was awkward. Thinking back to how naturally we used to talk made it all worse. On our first date, we sat on a cliff above my hometown and talked about our jobs and music we both listened to. Falling in love is easy when all it takes is a Mac Miller obsession and mental health issues in common.
She asked how moving back home was going. Instead of finding my own place, I called my parents and asked for their spare room. As I avoided eye contact with the still-full boxes stacked on top of my desk and the dirty clothes from the last two weeks back home making an ocean on the floor, I told her I was almost unpacked. A wall away, my brother had taken my old, spacious room along with the queen-sized bed that had been mine through three moves growing up. The sheets were sapphire and the pillows were squishy. Once I returned, I was assigned the bed he used to have. It felt a foot too short, with creaking springs that dug into my shoulders and Ninja Turtles littering the white sheets.
She told me she was moving out of her place, too, leaving our room, the room we were so excited for, empty, and the white walls looking paler than before. Her dad wasn’t like my parents. She moved out with me to get away from him, and she desperately didn’t want to go back. So if she wasn’t in that apartment, her only option was another shitty apartment in Billings. “You sure you shouldn’t save up for a while?” I asked. “I remember neither of us having a lot of money, like, ever.”
“I’m not really looking for your advice, Austin. I’m sorry. I know that sounds rude, but I didn’t ask for that.” Her response was quick and loud, like it was practiced. I thought back to another time I gave advice about a job she wasn’t happy with. I didn’t want to be the one arguing for what she hated, but if your couch is uncomfortable, that doesn’t mean set it on fire.
I was being rational, and I wasn’t wrong, but what I didn’t think about was that she didn’t care. It was stupid to think that she hadn’t thought about the financial aspect; that had always been looming over our heads. She wanted to be free from the house, and I was serving as an obstacle for her. What would happen if I just stopped?
She continued on for a while without a word from me. She talked about meeting with her therapist and how she decided to cut everyone off. She planned on deleting everyone’s numbers. Not just me or someone that made her feel bad, but everyone. At first her language was blunt and her voice was nonchalant, but then it began to quiver and her breath shortened. She said the only reason she went back to therapy was because she attempted again. I didn’t ask if she was safe then. I thought again of the night I told her to keep the job she hated. She felt lonely then, too. She hated herself then, too. I apologized for not doing enough. I told her it would all end up fine, and squeezed her hand to tell her it was okay.
I did all I could, but she still felt the same way months later. All the stress I felt to make her feel better didn’t help. She didn’t want my advice. She didn’t want anything. As it seemed she was wrapping up her monologue, she told me I was the best guy she’d ever been with. “You did nothing wrong,” she said. “I’m deleting your number so you won’t worry about me anymore, not because I hate you.” Silently, I screamed at her not to. What was an existence without anyone else? I viewed being alone as a death sentence, so as much as I needed to delete her number myself, how could I watch her isolate herself to this extent if I could even slightly help?
She told me it would all be okay, but I didn’t believe her. So many times it was the other way around. Now I felt why my words didn’t help. They were just words, trying to cover the signs saying the opposite. When she eventually hung up, I let out a deep exhale. It was over. I set my phone down on the table beside my Ninja Turtle bed and rolled away, hoping to hide from whatever was inside it.
This isn’t about a breakup. This isn’t about fixing my problems, because I haven’t. I didn’t understand that for a long time. Ending bad relationships should feel good, but I felt selfish. I felt alone. When I first told a good friend that it was over, he told me I was free, but being free from a bear trap doesn’t mean the wounds aren’t there. I had to curl up in a ball when I slept so my feet didn’t hang off the bed. For months I’ve thought if she would go through with it, if I’d even hear about it if she did. Maybe one day, I’ll actually believe I couldn’t have done more.
Austin Smith is a fourth-year writing student from Billings who is a huge fan of Chips Ahoy! and sea turtles.
The Rocky Mountain Review 