Though sometimes you cross my mind from time to time,
I don’t think that the stars are ours to have.
– Very Truly Yours, “Things You Used to Say”
As I left the house I saw that Melissa Broder, as her So Sad Today persona, had tweeted, “got over you but then saw you again.” I put my phone back in my pocket and tried not to view it as a sign.
I was in the middle of asking myself whether I really wanted to break my streak of not seeing you, not being around you, and not talking to you. It had been three years, five months, two weeks, and six days. (Approximately.) It was such a good run—I didn’t want to ruin that.
I didn’t particularly want to return to our high school after five years just to see an amateur production of Cinderella, either. I’d convinced myself that I was going for completely different reasons than having seen your name on the list of people attending. It was a fundraiser. It was an excuse to have a night out with friends; at least, the very, very few I’ve kept in touch with. I didn’t have anything better to do, except I did.
I had put on my favorite denim jacket and worn dark matte lipstick. (Not for you.) I had slicked on some eyeliner. (Not for you.) I had brushed my hair and made sure my neck smelled like peaches and apricots. (Not for you.)
During the play I sneak-studied for my English history exam and felt weird about familiarity and change, or lack thereof. When it was over I stood back, watched the crowd, and made myself invisible. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder for you.
You weren’t there, anyway.
Not until the very last minute, when I spotted the jacket that let people know you were going to medical school. You stood among your classmates from our senior class, fresh off a late lecture, I guessed. I could only see you from the back, but the second my eyes landed on you, I knew. You were already walking away.
“His hair is ridiculous,” I told Alyssa, when the doors closed behind you. (It is. Look at yourself. But whatever.)
We ended up having dinner in the same restaurant across the street—it had been an entirely different place before we graduated. Separate tables, of course. You were upstairs, because there were probably twenty of you in your group, and downstairs I was relieved, because the room definitely would’ve been too small for the both of us. (Not to mention two of your ex-girlfriends.)
When the plates were cleared and the bill was paid I sat outside with my friends while they smoked. And because I’m being honest, here: I didn’t want to go without seeing you and saying hi.
Obviously, because history is doomed to repeat itself, I never got to. We always were awful at keeping up with each other, even within the same space, even at the right time. Looking back, it’s funny to me that it’s how things turned out. Like, was it ever going to be anything else?
My back was turned to the restaurant entrance, so when Camille and Alyssa waved to someone leaving, I didn’t see who it was until it was too late. You were in a hurry, fishing your car keys out of your pocket, your glasses threatening to fall off your face. I watched you get into your car—now I’ll flinch every time I pass a black sedan. You wear glasses, I thought. You can drive, I thought. We’re not sixteen anymore, I thought, we’re twenty-two. You walked right past me, I thought.
You drove away. Gone again until who knows when. Oblivious as ever. Makoto Shinkai would be proud.
The girls and I took an Uber, and I didn’t care that the driver could hear me calling you an asshole. They dropped me off along Roosevelt, and my mind was still on you as I bought a cake from a family bakery and rode the jeepney home.
I wanted to leave you a voicemail. Isn’t that ridiculous? I wanted to call you and have your prerecorded message play and probably feel my breath hitch when I hear your voice and tell you everything in one long and nervous tirade after the beep. I wanted to confess. If only for the act itself, nothing more. I wanted to be reckless and loud and unapologetic.
But I couldn’t, because we don’t leave voicemails. And because I don’t have your number. So I settled for the next best thing, which was to send you a message request on Messenger (because we’re not Facebook friends, and fuck me if I sent you a friend request). I thought twice about adding an exclamation point. My finger hovered shakily over the little blue arrow as I told myself what a bad idea this was. My entire life was a bad idea.
I hit send.
I said: Hey! This is probably gonna sound stupid, but I saw you tonight and we didn’t get to say hi and for some reason that bothered me. So. Hi, belatedly. Hope you’re well.
I immediately muted notifications.
I tweeted about what I’d done.
I went to check Alyssa and Camille’s messages, after which technology decided to betray me and let me know that you’d accepted the request and replied. The preview for your message flashed on the screen: you should’ve tapped me…
Shit. Shitshitshit. I locked my phone and put it away. I didn’t check it again until I was home, practically choking on the chocolate chiffon I’d bought.
You said: FIEL!! where did you see me? in the auditorium?
You said: Hello!! Long time no talk!
You said: hahaha
You said: you should’ve tapped me or something haha
I wanted to say: I’m on my period and I’m lonely and this irrational sentimental bullshit has nothing to do with you.
I wanted to say: You still owe me a mix CD.
I wanted to say: Do you remember when I told you I was starting to doubt the God you and I grew up with? “Don’t waver,” you said. I’m sorry. I don’t believe in any gods now, especially not the ones that take the shape of humans. I believe in a movement that’s bigger than all of us, and I believe that it exists out there in the greater scope of the Universe. Does that make any sense?
I wanted to say: You missed out. I was pretty.
In the end all I said was: It was nice seeing you.
Neither of us said anything after that.
We’re never going to get any closure, are we? Almost-relationships are the weirdest. Maybe there’s really just nothing to close.
There have now been two nights in my life that involve booze, cheap cake, and a boy, blissfully unwitting. Sadness, also, but. There’s this strangest hyper-awareness that the earth is moving. I’ll live.
I was over you. I saw you again, and I still fucking am.
(All I ask is, this better not be a recurring theme in my life.)
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