Would you want to go for a walk?
I asked it while giving everything away. He knew immediately what the walk would entail, and with hesitation, he said yes. To my happiness, he said yes.
We headed in the direction of his old elementary school, a few hundred feet from his house. There were swing sets on its playground, ones he would sit on in desperate times to clear his head. On this trek towards the swing sets however, his head would not be cleared, but forced to accept new thoughts, or alterations to ones he held true.
It had just rained, causing the amount of light to double, the streetlamps reflected in puddles. The night was cold, and both of us were shivering, adding even more trepidation to our voices. I tried starting off the conversation with light talk of a project I’d be working on once I returned home. He stopped me before I could say what class it was for.
Why’d you come up here, Alex?
I was ready for it. I had it all in my head, each sentence perfectly crafted to convey the truest of meaning. Once I was put on the spot though, they were all skewed, and I paused in attempt to get my groundings. Unfortunately, one of the last sentences came out first.
I still love you.
He knew it was coming. He knew I’d fuck up right away, and he was ready for it.
Alex, you have to stop. You can’t keep driving to me, expecting everything to go back the way it was.
“Oh, how silly of me to want love. My apologies,” I thought. That was my instant reaction to his negation. To speak it would be callow though, and would only make me look just as childish as my love for him. I wiped out any notion of going off on my practiced soliloquy, and started a new. With a breath taken only to prevent fainting, I shot out the prior nine months within 25 minutes.
It was beautiful. I spoke of the depression, the thoughts of suicide, my foolish attempts to replace his love, and explained the motivation that kept me driving back to Minoa every chance I could get. I had already written all of this down in papers and journals, summarized it in a book, and had informed my entire network of friends and family over the time apart. It was such a thrill to finally tell Him himself. After I completed my rant, I expected only the most reasonable reaction from him. “Thank you, Alex, for loving me in that way. I love you too.”
What I expect is not what happens however. He kicked me off the soapbox and stood tippy toed atop it in my place. He shot down every theatrical thought and action I had told him of with analytical rationale. He considered my thoughts of suicide as a form of weakness, even though he had been in the same place before. Everything he said though, with such conviction and concrete analysis, did not make sense. My words were truer, held more human value, and followed the mapping of love. His sounded like denial and negativity. I was life, bursting with hope. He was that night, cold and reflecting my light falsely.
Every “no” and “stop” led me to feeling dead. Because of that, I felt that every step I took was meaningless, for I did not exist anymore. Walking actually seemed like a chore, painful to do even. If I did not exist, why would I choose to keep perceiving work if no work was actually being done? My walking slowed significantly. I was a shade, a ghost, a memory of his walking beside him, haunting him.
I tried last feeble attempts to convince him he was wrong, for another chance at life together. Every shaking sentence spoke was denied with a squinted gaze. His eyes were freezing me, staring with an expression of disgust and a lack of respect. I felt small.
I had to accept it though. He wasn’t the person I knew all that time ago. He was older and had more to say and less to think. I swallowed my pride and agreed to move on. Can you believe that? I drove six hours just to promise I would never do it again.
Well we ended our walk on that note, as well as right in front of the swing sets by his house. I stopped and stared at them, and he asked me if I was coming with him. I told him I needed to sit down. I wasn’t going to use his medium of thinking however. Those swings were tainted with a sad history. I instead sat on a bench beside the swing sets. From there, I watched his figure in the distance disappear behind houses as he walked back home.
I started immediately, the tears streaming on command. I sat and cried, wishing I was at home, wishing I was content with my life. It brought back a memory of being in my mother's arms, being able to cry shamelessly because I felt safe. The only difference was; I didn't have my mother and I didn't feel safe. I still cried shamelessly however. There was no need for shame. I had nothing to lose. I had nothing to give. I had nothing to love. I had nothing at all.
I walked back to his house after a few minutes, not wanting to grovel in such a low state of life. I didn’t know what to do with myself there. That was his place to thrive, not mine, and I was not about to make swing sets in Minoa a lasting memory. It had no place within me, and neither did I in Minoa.
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