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When I was a teenager, I had the mail carrier’s schedule memorized. This was made possible by our neighborhood carrier’s almost unsettling consistency in his rounds, but it was something I chose to do because of the sheer joy that came from seeing him, from the excitement of the mere possibility of receiving a letter, parcel or even junk with my name on it. Even still, it wasn’t a great use of my time, but it was still something to do. It was a way to fill the moments of otherwise overwhelming quiet or a way to pretend that I had friends or consistent human interactions to look forward to.
Come to think of it, there might have been a more deep-seated psychological explanation for this, as it started in earnest after my father died. But that’s neither here nor there if you’re talking about things in my life I’m actually willing to unpack.
But what could have been a small anecdote from my teenage years actually proved to be a lingering habit or an inclination that I hadn’t had a chance to indulge as a fully-fledged adult. But once I had the chance to fall back into that pattern again, I was standing by a new window, staring out at the road waiting for the mail carrier to come. At least, I had something that looked like an excuse. My dad’s laptop was coming; my mother had finally sent it after a couple of weeks of forgetting on her part and begging on mine.
But of course, the mail truck wasn’t coming. It wasn’t going to appear just because I was looking for it.
With a heavy sigh, I started to peel away those faint invisible tethers binding me to my post. For once, a breath came with relative ease, but while I appreciated that, I couldn’t spend too long celebrating it. There was always something to do or something that needed to be done. Moments of quiet were often moments I regretted later when I looked at that list and saw how it had grown.
I pulled myself away from the window and walked towards the couch. There was a short story I had been meaning to write, after all. I had the outline for it on my phone notes app. It was about a world plagued by an affliction that could make people invisible and a government who had weaponized it by strategically treating it. Through withholding treatment, they could make their critics or any undesirable person disappear. My young main character was about to discover this abuse of power when his girlfriend disappeared after briefly flirting with the resistance.
The concept looked great on paper, but it wasn’t easy to implement or stitch together into something one might vaguely recognize as a story. It was the sort of plot that was ripe with holes, and to add to that, I couldn’t help but think the character’s gender identity would have to be a part of this struggle. Maybe because there were the beginnings of a grand allegory lurking in this random idea I had, but I hadn’t entered this thought experiment with that intention, and it was a hell of a thing to add after the fact.
Or maybe it was because I genuinely couldn’t focus. I kept anticipating the unannounced and unpredictable arrival of my dad’s old laptop. It was going to be a break in my day, so in some way, it made sense to hesitate to immerse myself too deeply into anything. What would be the point? My resistance was just my practicality showing, I could try to say and did say, over and over again.
But in reality, I just didn’t want to be writing. The fact that I needed to was irrelevant. So I kept getting up from the couch and pacing around the house. During the thirteenth round, I realized that I was craving something salty. Like popcorn. I would have loved to have some popcorn right then, but there was none in the house. I had forgotten to get some at the store. It was on the list. Or it would have been had I properly composed a list instead of relying on my memory like I always did.
But I could just go to the store right then, I thought. The university had given me a very generously loaded transit card, but it wasn’t something I could bring myself to do right then. Because the laptop was coming! And sure, the package didn’t need to be signed for, but it shouldn’t be left out in the sun or heat for an extended period of time. After all, it was older technology. It was delicate.
But what about transit? The long journey it had already undertaken to get this far? What happened when Mom mailed it? In the summer? I cursed under my breath. She didn’t know anything about computers, so she wouldn’t have known to ask the USPS for any special precautions or extra services.
Meaning, there was a chance that the laptop was well and truly broken beyond repair, I realized, but that was also assuming it still worked after so long sitting lifelessly and untouched.
Those thoughts marked the beginning of another spiral. There were so many different types of spirals, but they all ended the same way: with me feeling absolutely terrible, unable to move or work, and sick to my stomach, a stomach that was still craving popcorn. Physically, I was on the living room couch but sinking deeper and deeper into the cushions as the moments ticked by. My bouncing leg accidentally pushed me further down. And yet, I couldn’t stop the shaking because I was too busy trying to steady my breathing. A certain but not unfamiliar dizziness was already setting in, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do about that. The first step was breathing, obviously, but if that failed, then what do I do?
It was an increasingly relevant question. My inhales felt constricted, stunted in my chest in some way. As each breath failed, the need for a secondary plan only grew.
In front of me, my phone buzzed on the coffee table, cutting the podcast episode it was playing off in favor of this soft cry. The soft hum of the alert cut straight to my heart. Even though there was no reason behind the assumption, I thought it was a notification about the laptop: some sort of delivery issue, specifically. That was just what my mind was inclined to think. And I was half-right because it was about mail, just not my mail.
Ellie had gotten the coffee pods. The bulk order had seemingly run into some delays because it was only now getting there in late-July. I should have been keeping an eye on it, but I lacked the patience. But now the arrival was being announced to me through Ellie’s confused text message as she struggled to understand what in the bloody hell I had done.
At that point, I couldn’t tell how much of the picture she had pieced together. The vanilla coffee pods in the break room had probably run out and never been replaced. That was one puzzle piece. And now I had sent her a bunch of those same pods, and surprise(!) my name was on the shipping label because I didn’t set it to be an anonymous gift. That should have been enough to lay out a clear picture, at least enough to have a general sense of what was going on.
Which meant I had to explain myself. There was no way around it anymore. Free coffee might be great, but she had to be wondering if it was really free coffee or another sign of a mental decline on my part. Which it probably was. I couldn’t really deny that. However, she had to be hoping I would. Maybe she even needed me to deny it. But regardless of wherever she was on the “want/need” spectrum, she deserved an answer. I had to fill in the gaps that were left: namely, all the ‘whys.’ However, I still didn’t have those answers.
I could have told her that it felt right in the moment to do that or that I wanted to do things that made her happy or that brightened her day. I also could have added that this was the rationale behind a lot of what I did: I valued her happiness, and I wanted to see more of it. And this wasn’t a part of some sort of exchange. There were never any expectations behind any of what I did for her, and I would have never made any sort of demand.
But none of that felt right to say. After all, I knew how it would sound. It would sound like a love confession that would be impossible for her to return, which would rip apart what was left of the bridge between us. I had burned so much of it already, but I hadn’t salted the earth. A pseudo-love-confession would do that. But worst of all, it would likely hurt Ellie. She would likely think that everything I did for her was out of some desire to sleep with her. She wouldn’t think it was because I wanted her to be happy, that I saw something beautiful in her happiness or that I took a sense of fulfillment from making her happy. And I could have tried to say that, but that somehow seemed even worse than just letting her think I was in love with her in the traditional sense. Romantic love just felt less complicated than the swirl of emotions that were actually plaguing me.
But in the absence of those things, I had nothing else to say. So I found myself drifting into the silence again, the same silence that made everything so much worse. Because Ellie wanted an answer. She needed an answer, by some standards, but by all standards, she deserved one. But I was too busy dwelling on all the things I couldn’t say to properly respond.
I sighed and felt a rattle in my chest as I exhaled. That sensation should have been concerning, but I was used to it by then. It didn’t happen every time I exhaled or enough times that I felt the need to keep some sort of medical accounting. It just didn’t surprise me anymore. I took a few deep breaths just to see if it would keep up, but it didn’t. It just happened once, making it easy to dismiss.
But with all of that, a few minutes had gone by. Ellie’s message sat on my screen, unaddressed. She hadn’t followed it up. We were past that. I briefly wondered if we were past my answering. Texting felt like an instantaneous sort of communication method, which didn’t really make sense. As the recipient, it felt like there was a pressure to answer right when the message came in, but as the sender, you couldn’t expect that. You didn’t have the sort of confirmation that the other person was on their phone and able to receive that message, and without that confirmation, you couldn’t rightfully expect anything.
But Ellie did have confirmation: read receipts were on.
I cursed under my breath. I needed to answer her. Something, anything. My thumbs fell into position. It seemed to me that keeping things simple would be best. I could just confirm what she likely suspected.
With a sigh, I typed out, I was the person putting out vanilla coffee pods. HR did cut the budget for them. I filled the gap.
It wasn’t a great message, but it could exist without my second guessing or holding back.
Ellie responded immediately. But why?
The message looked complete to her. It was why she sent it, but once it was on its way to me, she realized she had more to say or ask of me.
Her second message: Why on so many fronts, Mia?
I could have just said it was because I liked that coffee too. It would have made sense. I wanted it. I had the disposable income necessary to buy it. I am the sort of person who shares. All of that could be stitched together to make a truly innocent answer with no sort of implications or consequences that might make Ellie uncomfortable. It wasn’t a great answer, considering the large supply I had sent to her, but it was a good placeholder. It just had to exist. All I had to do was make that response exist, but I couldn’t even do that.
My hands shook. If that was my subconscious’s attempt to shake the words from my fingers, (1) it didn’t work, and (2) I would have liked to be consulted before it attempted such a thing. The trembling made typing difficult, and I needed to type. I needed to say something. Ellie was giving me a fourteenth chance, despite how undeserving I was as a direct result of the way I squandered the first thirteen. I started to type out a response that was along the lines of I don’t know but I did know that wasn’t an acceptable answer, and it would only fuel Ellie’s distress.
Instead, I wrote out, It was something to do.
I sent that message before I realized just how unacceptable that answer was. That made me feel less worthless, I quickly added.
The notification that she was typing appeared as I was finishing that message, but once my follow up was sent, she stopped. Nothing came in at first, and the digital silence proved to be just as suffocating as the real thing.
Panicked, I sent her a third message. I didn’t do anything at that job, remember? I automated everything.
To that, she replied, Your team is royally fucked, by the way. Your automation all fell apart when you left.
The sight of Perry’s reddening face flashed in my mind, and I took too much joy from the image. I almost sent Ellie a quick, LOL, but I didn’t want her to think I left the job maliciously, though Perry deserved as much. I also didn’t want her to know that I left as abruptly as I did because it was the only thing I could do to secure her promotion for the same reason I didn’t want her to know about those stupid coffee pods.
There was nothing good for me to say right then.
Sucks for them, is what I said instead.
And I miss you, she quickly added.
My heart fell. I wanted to tell her that I missed her too because it was the truth and because it would make it abundantly clear that she was not included in the ‘them’ that my previous text referenced. But saying that felt like too much. It felt like a slip of the tongue I kept so securely locked up in my mouth. It felt like the last piece to the puzzle I didn’t want Ellie to be able to assemble. I didn’t want her to try to piece together my feelings for her when I didn’t fully understand them. Because I did love Ellie. Is what you were waiting for me to write? I did love Ellie, but I didn’t love her in the way that would make my soul desperate to possess her. I didn’t love her in a way that came with genuine heartache that she was not mine. But I grieved when she grieved and even when she didn’t. I lamented any moment of sadness or displeasure in her life. I dreaded her tears. They felt like drops of my own blood escaping me, pulling bits of my life out with them. But I didn’t need to date her. I didn’t need to hug her, kiss her, or sleep with her. And yet, I got so jealous when I saw her hug someone else. Not jealous out of anger but out of desperation for a quick turn in her arms.
I didn’t need to have her, but I needed to have a turn in her presence. I needed our lunches but was content skipping dinner. I loved her, but at the same time, I didn’t.
None of that made sense. It didn’t make sense to me. But that world salad came as close as possible to capturing the storm I felt when she drew close or pulled away. Yes, I loved Ellie, but I didn’t love her in a way she would understand.
The shaking in my hands intensified, but that was my fault. I had flown too close to my own sun and had hit the point where I could feel my wings melting. The fall was coming. I should have braced myself, but I couldn’t. The anxiety of what was about to happen, or what I could logically assume would happen, was hindering me.
Shakily, my thumbs typed out, I miss you too, but I had to take this fellowship. I needed to leave Chicago.
Without a second thought, I sent it. I sent a message of half-truths to Ellie and immediately felt a wave of guilt wash over me. I wanted to give her the full truth. She deserved it, but the full truth was horribly complex and frightening. So, true to form, I panicked and balked. While I didn’t exactly lie, calling it that much felt like a hair split. I didn’t want to split hairs with Ellie. I wanted the sort of relationship where we shared the truth with each other. And worse yet, it didn’t feel right to do that splitting with Ellie. It felt mean.
As I read over my words again, they felt hollow. The emptiness left space for an echoing that shook the soul. I felt that too, and I worried that she was being rocked just as hard.
At the thought, a familiar urge rose up. I wanted to comfort her. I wanted to do something, anything, to take away the ache. That was what I had always done before. I would always pour myself empty trying to keep her cup overflowing. And I was happy to do it. But I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t that I was empty. There were plenty of times when my cup was empty and still managed to force out a drop or two for Ellie. Rather, I was too far away. The spirit was willing to do it, the flesh was willing to try, but the distance prevented the attempt.
My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, but a firm knock on the door called them back. It was my turn to get an emotionally charged package.