21:
“I don’t want you to be unhappy.”
…
Looking back, you now realize you spent the first year of it dreaming and the second year living. Your hair was red, then brown, then yellow, then pink. You changed it around to figure yourself out. Then you changed yourself to figure him out.
After a year, the people in your life started to fade like old photographs. He had moved away by then, and took your focus with him. Now you had to go too.
And who could blame you? This is it, you thought to yourself then. This is why.
You packed your car and said goodbyes. This is so much love, you swelled.
…
Years later, a different boy in your bed, you casually mention the days you lived in the desert.
“Why did you move out there?” he wants to know.
For a boy, you say.
17:
I fall asleep at night with a sweater on, fighting convulsive shivers. Did I eat enough today? What did I eat today?
My bathroom is filled with products for the skin. Body oils. Butter lotions. Eye creams. I slather everything on, layering clothing over it. Long sleeves. Sweatpants. Sweatshirt.
I crawl under the covers, spreading my three blankets neatly around me and then stacking them one on top of the other. Down comforter. Tan comforter. Blue comforter.
Arms and legs inside. Head tucked in. My skin feels warm, but I can’t stop shivering.
“You’re like the Tin Man,” I tell you, expecting a protest.
“Everyone has their flaws,” you reply unconcerned.
This response has an immediately sobering affect on me. I look back on our happy moments, laying them out neatly side by side on the floorspace in my head. I kneel down to track their evolution– from surprising to exciting to so new, so fun to an abrupt end. I suppose I shouldn’t have tried to ask for anything more than a good friendship from you. Appropriately chastised, I think I finally understand. And it’s not a big deal, really.
I dreamed about you last night, though he looked nothing like you. He was missing everything that you have, but was everything you’re not. And I woke up feeling better.
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