Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #34

When I was working on my homework today (you must be as surprised as me), an insistent knock on the front door interrupted me. After blinking out of my homework-trance, it took me a minute to answer it. All the while, the thumping at the door grew more desperate.

I hadn't expected Nick to be on the other side of it, and from the way his eyes narrowed before widening, I didn't think he expected me either.

I couldn't help it: I sighed. "Go away, Nick."

"Is Lacy here? She won't pick up her phone." His eyes darted past me, deeper into the apartment.

"No." Pleading almost, "Please leave."

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, glaring at the ground.

"You know what your problem is, M.? You think you're the only one that blames yourself," Nick whispered, deadly quiet. "Do you honestly  think you're the only one that misses her?

"I can't talk to Mariah about how one of my friends died last year, or how another one blames me for everything." He glanced up at me, eyes gleaming. "And fuck, M., I blame myself, too. But I'm not pretending everything's okay either. It's just... if I don't keep moving, I'm going to drive myself crazy.

"I'm going to live with—" he closed his eyes, swallowing "—this the rest of my life. But it's consuming you, and I can't watch it anymore. I can't handle you blaming you and you blaming me anymore. So if you can bring yourself to forgive me, and for fuck's sake, forgive yourself, maybe we can start over. Until then, I can't be around you. It's just too fucking toxic."

And with that, Nick walked out of my life.

There was this moment, watching his back as he went, where I thought about that avalanche of could've been's and could be's. If I walked after him and past him, I could get out of this city. I could go someplace where nothing reminds me of us, and by the time my feet start to throb, there'd be no one left who knew my name. I could disappear forever inside myself and convince myself I'm someone else.

Such perfect dissonance.

But I looked down the hall, down the flung-open door of the building, and my limbs weighed heavier. My next step would've been laden with memory, and no matter where I go, they all would've been.

There is no escape. It doesn't matter. Escape from this is escape from her.

No, not escape. It's the final end, and I can't bear to kill her twice.

So I retreated back inside, which just felt like a soulless apartment, unwelcoming and unkind. And climbing into bed, I pulled the comforter up to my chin. The chill, though, is bone deep. I will never be truly warm again.

(How can I? Her laughter can't crackle through the air. Her eyes can't linger on mine, hot and bright as fireworks.)

There is no warmth.