Hey,
I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked. At least really talked, talked like we used to. It’s been two years now, a little more. I still remember that evening I came home from one of my night classes and checked my email. September 16, 2009. I have a really good memory for significant dates. It was from you, without a subject. But I had a feeling the moment I saw it what it meant. You know that sort of premonition you get in your gut when something is going to be upsetting or uncomfortable before it happens, before you have any idea what’s even going on? It was just like that.
And inside the email was the shortest, simplest message I’d ever received:
“Can I talk to you?”
I knew immediately. I just knew. But I feigned ignorance and replied saying that I just got home, I had tons of work, I’m sorry I was so busy, I’ll talk as soon as possible. I even included a line saying “Is this something you can or want to tell me over email, or do you want to wait to talk?” I figured this would make me seem more oblivious while it really answered my suspicions.
“No. It can wait.”
And so I went about my nighttime routine with this thought in the back of my mind. This sneaking, consuming suspicion and worry. Because I knew. I just knew. But I didn’t know, not yet. It wasn’t confirmed. And I couldn’t take not knowing, not being sure. I figured if this was the time to feel this way, this was the time to talk. So I closed the door of my bedroom, dialed your number, and you picked up after a few rings.
“Hey,” I remember saying to you quietly.
“Hey…” was your near-silent reply.
“So…erm…what’s up?”
Silence.
“You had something to tell me? I’m here now…”
Silence. So I waited. And waited. And waited.
I wondered if you had disconnected, and whispered, “You still there?”
“I think we should break up,” was your immediate reply.
Silence. That aching, permeating silence.
“I…I kinda figured that’s what you wanted to tell me,” I sighed. “But why? I’m…I’m totally confused.”
“I…we…we…just need to stop. This isn’t working.”
Silence.
“And why do you think that?” I asked. “Help me out here. I told you that being at different schools would make this much more difficult once the summer ended. You said it didn’t matter. I promised to spend every free weekend, every spare meeting I could with you. You were thrilled. I promised to call at least once daily, whenever you said it was most convenient. You said you wanted nothing more. So what changed?”
Silence.
“Are you there, Shannon?”
And still, the roar of deafening silence. It’s funny how loud it can be, the absence of sound. But you hear it, don’t you? It’s not just quiet…it’s a dull cacophony of nothing.
And through that silence, you maintained perfect composure as you breathed and then stated, “I’m sorry.” And I knew you were. But not sorry for me, because you didn’t say that. And I could hear it. You were sorry for you, because you didn’t want this to hurt you as much as it did. You wanted me to accept the burden, the uneasiness, the questions, the hurt. And because I never wanted to hurt you, I did. I took it all upon myself.
“Is it me?” I asked rhetorically. Of course it wasn’t. But you wanted it to be. You wanted there to be a good reason.
“Can I do something differently? Can I fix something? Will you try, Shannon? Tell me what I can do to fix this for you, and I’ll do it. I promise I’ll try. Why didn’t you ever mention if something felt wrong before? We could’ve work it out before it got to here…”
Silence, once again.
“No…no. I’m sorry. I can’t…it won’t…” you stuttered, though your voice was calm. My eyes burned with tears. I was crying silently, because I knew you wouldn’t try. Because I didn’t matter anymore. I was just an obstacle, an impediment. A thorn in your side, not a warm hand beside it. To you, I was a hideous memory of a forgettable past.
“Are you sure?” I implored once. I said nothing else.
“Yeah.”
Silence. This time from me. Then, “Alright Shannon. Alright. Can we still be friends? Please?” I asked.
“Sure,” came your mechanical reply. Apathy hurts more than hate, you know. At least hate carries meaning and feeling. Apathy is the absence of anything to feel. But I felt so much because of your apathy. I was ill with heartbreak. And you didn’t care.
It took me weeks to get over you. Months. It didn’t help that you led me along the whole time. It didn’t help to find out that you started dating him three days later. It made me laugh bitterly when you dumped him a month later for him. At least I had lasted longer. A lot longer.
But I cared the whole time, you know. I couldn’t help it. There were days when I felt better, freer, when I thought I was getting over you. And then a day later I was crushed again. Consumed by the weight of personal failure and neglect. Even though none of it was my fault. But it’s always my fault, in my eyes. At least until I’m over myself. Over you.
You devastated me. And I didn’t even know how or why. And I knew you did, but I didn’t want it to be like this. It’s like seeing a flaw within yourself but not being able to fix it. Caring this much after you was my flaw. But at least I didn’t care too little, like you.
And on the day I felt freed? That February 22, 2010? Suddenly I was done. All the pain, all the poison, all the ache…it was gone. I had undergone my own bloodletting, my own grieving, all without blood or grief. Nobody knew, because nobody needed to. It was for me to overcome. And I did, all on my own.
So why am I writing this letter now? Because it’s been two years. Because since then, you’ve tried to be a better friend. And I respect that, and I appreciate it. But with those last vestiges of love, my abandonment fled too. As did that seemingly solid friendship. On the rare occasion when we do talk now, it’s fine. It’s fun. You’re affable and amiable as always, and I can laugh easily and genuinely. We’re friendly, and that’s fine. But we’re not friends, really. Not anymore. Not like we used to be.
And I’m fine now. I don’t need to be tied down to painful memories and feelings of inadequacy. Nobody will ever make me feel that way again. So in a way, thank you…I guess. You taught me how to free myself from heartache when it exists. Taught me to fight the prolonged and enduring and painful battle most people hate and avoid and run from. But I know how to move along, and live fully. And love fully, once again.
Thank you for being an important lesson in my life.
You lost love,
Will
