There has never been a day of my life where I didn’t overthink every action I took, every word that stumbled from my fingertips, every syllable that came from my mouth. Well there was, but that was before her. She was my love, my one and only, the only constant in uncertainty. We would share everything - food, who our crushes were, what our parents had done that was enough to leave us feeling frightened and alone. We were each other's firsts, our everything. Or at least that’s what she would say.
My love, she was so fickle - favoring me one day and another the next, leaving out more of her life than I would ever know, always having one foot out the door. I guess I was like that overtime, too. Now she knows nothing of me, nothing of who I am or what makes me cry from joy or grief. I was naive, thinking that time would be enough to hold us together, that problems would fade and behaviors would change as we grew older, unaware that change becomes more difficult in a cast that has begun to set.
She was unpredictable, my love. Lashing out at one thing or the next, things I no longer have the willpower to keep up with. But her spontaneity had a pattern.
It would begin with replacement - her choosing another - another for her to shower with praise or attention or tears. Then would come the comments, the judgement, the sighs. Next, she would say something like “I want to tell you something, but even if I do you wouldn’t change.” I would beg for specification, pleading to know what I could have done to hurt my beloved. She would refuse, narrow her eyes in that way that always filled me with an indescribable amount of shame. I would beg and beg, pressing to be let in. Finally, she would say: “you’re so selfish,” or “I just can’t deal with you,” or “do you even know how insufferable you are?” Then she would fall silent, fix her eyes on her phone, and act like she never said anything at all.
Next would come isolation. I would be left completely and utterly alone, every question of what I had done wrong, what I could do to be better, every apology for a mistake I didn’t realize I made, would be ignored - she wouldn’t even face me long enough to make that narrowed look. I would be invisible for those hours, days, even weeks. When I was without her, it was as if the entire world was shutting me out, laughing at an inside joke that they wouldn’t pause to explain - it practically was that way. Her behavior would be mirrored - pairs of eyes passing over me as though I were another motionless object. I would be given no hint as to what my misdeed was, rather I would be met with "I don’t want to be involve’s,” or “you messed up big time’s.” To my love, it was too low of her to speak first, So I would be left to search through instances of memories - analyzing every conversation, every movement, every sighting that could have made her feel this way towards me - her person, her soulmate - until I was left in disgust of myself , viewing everything I had done as rude or selfish or attention seeking or any other trait she pronounced me to have. I would practically hit myself, spiraling while remembering anything from me asking for a pencil to crying about how much I wished my sister would return - questioning how I could ever ask so much of her, to ask her to give, to share, to listen - wondering how I could become so inconsiderate of my beloved.
Finally, confrontation. I would call - begging for her to speak to me, ready to own up to my crimes. Then would come the lecture, the degradation, the criticism of everything from my tendency to tap songs out with my fingers to when I said it was messed up for her to get someone to write her application essays for her, only to brag about her acceptance and laugh at their rejection - proudly cheating through the courses so many others would trade their souls to take. Then, I would apologize, I would be yelled at for apologizing. I would promise to be better, to do better, she wouldn’t believe me. I would clear my throat, she would ask if I was crying, screaming how my sensitivity was another one of the many other things she couldn’t stand about me. Finally, I would say the right thing - the right combination of words that would absolve her of all anger and resentment and have her accept me again. It would never be the same words every time - sometimes it would take multiple tries, but eventually I would get it just right. The right admission of things I had never said or thought. The right agreement that everything from my tapping to my questioning were flaws that must immediately be corrected. The right promise that I would be better. I would stop tapping, stop questioning, stop playing the music I liked, or bringing up my favorite shows in front of her, or wearing my favorite sweater in public, because it was completely and utterly necessary to be let back in. The less I did or said anything of my own, the more the world reopened, and the more my beloved would be pleased.
It was so easy to forget everything about myself, become a mouthpiece that affirmed her every thought and discouraged her every worry. It would hurt, every day it would hurt, but I would still do it, because no matter how much it hurts to be in her world, it could never amount to how much it hurts to be left out of it.