I hadn’t said a word to you about that night at the end of April. Almost a month had gone by without my mentioning Her. Without you mentioning Her. But I’d been filled with blazing rage that night and that was gone–all that was left was cold, sour disdain. And it’s harder to be confident you’re in the right when that’s what you’re left with. That and the memory.
You couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I could tell you were approaching me as though you were approaching a minefield. Part of me appreciated that. And another part of me hated it. Because as I was in the heart of my descent back into depression (a problem you’d already been made aware of), you were keeping your distance, asking about me through mutuals.
You finally sent me, Hey. Why are you not talking to me?
And I did answer you with honesty: Very busy rotting from the inside out.
You said to me, That sounds… excruciating. Can I help you not do that? Can I come over in half an hour or so?, but you didn’t know I’d already left. I’d already moved back home. You offered to come at midnight but with my brother now sleeping in the basement, you sneaking into my room isn’t really an option anymore.
You told me, I just want to talk to you. And you haven’t been talking to me. And that’s very troubling to me. Which wasn’t entirely true, in my opinion. I would say we simply were not talking. I had responded to your texts. Just not at length, or with punctuality. And I told you this.
I asked if you really wanted to help me stop rotting. If you really could. Because I did not know. I told you I did not know. You said you wanted to, why else would you have asked earlier; and I said, It’s what you’re supposed to do.
You told me, No, it’s what I commonly do because I’m concerned about your well-being. I didn’t know how to respond. So I simply responded with Okay. I still felt angry over the end of April; and these messages were creating emotions that conflicted harshly with how I’d already decided I felt towards you.
Why were you showing you cared?
I had to address the issue with Her first. I felt it was moving further and further away, becoming irrelevant, and I would never find closure for it.
You finally messaged me after a week of silence between us, saying I keep dreaming about this conversation taking place, so I’m just gonna say something: I’m not maintaining a silence because I don’t want to talk to you; I’m waiting for you to say something because I don’t know what to say. We made plans to go for a walk around the neighborhood and the conversation didn’t really go in the direction I had imagined it would.
My emotions also weren’t what they were supposed to have been. It was easy to forget for a few moments about why I’d been so angry; and then I’d remember again, and get frustrated because I couldn’t figure out how to work it into the conversation without putting myself at a disadvantage.
But then my anxiety became to much, and I needed to get out of my house. I asked if you wanted to do something during the week and you sent me a screenshot showing that you had the same message typed up. We decided on Wednesday.
I came over around one-thirty, but it wasn’t until the evening that conversation really started to happen. I’d bought a bottle of Jameson on our way home from Olive Garden because I wanted to get a bit drunk. We decided we wanted to watch a shitty movie we could talk and joke through; so I nursed my way through four glasses of Jameson mixed with ginger-ale as we lounged on the couch watching Eclipse. You only had one. I felt confident enough to fall back against your chest, and you held me to you.
I cannot recall how the conversation started after the movie ended. I remember you making a comment about my silence following that night in April. You said there’d been a point where you’d been worried I was pregnant, and that’s why I was being so distant. Which seemed kind of silly to me. You’d probably be the first I’d tell.
Then we started talking about that night in April. The night of the movie. You said you’d felt I was mad at you–which I was. For multiple reasons. I began to bring up what I’d seen between you and Her, but I stopped, I’d said “Nevermind.”
But you, looking like you already knew what I was going to say, said, “No, what? Tell me.” And when I didn’t answer you right away, you asked, “Is it about the fact that I still hang out with Her?”
And I told you no, not at all. That didn’t matter to me, although I did ask you later what you guys did because I was genuinely curious–there doesn’t seem to be much common ground there. I said it was about Her, though. I told you I felt you’d hurt me on purpose that night with your flirting with Her, because you’d been mad at me. I told you if you wanted to fuck Her, that’s fine, fuck Her; but then end things with me.
I had started to go on, just more rambling, but you were shaking your head. “I don’t want to fuck Her.” So calm, and so sure.
The alcohol had me rambling on more about how it’s fine if you wanna fuck Her, just don’t do it when you’re fucking me because we’d just had that discussion, ya know? And you nodded and said, “I know. But I don’t want to fuck Her.”
You’d seemed confused when I’d said you’d been flirting with Her. You said you weren’t sure why she was there in the first place, since Markus had invited Her but he was giving all of his attention to a different girl.
I explained the group photos I’d seen of the two of you on Facebook, dressed in formal wear. Because she’d been tagged in them, of course. They hadn’t bothered me at the time; but stacked up with Her relationship status change and the flirting, had started to when I remembered them that night.
And you said something that I still find kind of… interesting. You said you thought about calling me that night the photos were taken. Because you knew I’d see them and you didn’t want me getting worried. I asked you what it had been for, and you told me Her swing-dancing club. I asked why you hadn’t mentioned it, and you said it had been a spur of the moment thing that night, you hadn’t even been going originally.
It could’ve simply been my tipsy state. Maybe you were lying. But it didn’t feel like it. Your words sounded genuine.