Drift

iii. Little Bit of Good

My hand twitches with the urge to slap your mother across the face, to wipe the smugness from her blood red lips. The triumph of finally putting one past us, finally being able to separate us. It no longer counts what she thinks of me, does it? It’s not like I’ll ever see you again, while she’s breathing.

Then my eyes flicker to your dad’s sheepish expression, and my fingers loosen. “He left something for you,” he says.

“Where?”, but the end doesn’t lift like questions normally do. It just remains flat on the ground, like it doesn’t have the strength to get back up. 

“In his room,” he responds, opening the front door for me. I push past him, and your mom, up the stairs and down the hall to the bare, unmarked door that I know is yours. I pause briefly at the threshold to take a breath, then push open the door-

And the room— And the room-

The room’s completely empty.

My breath catches in my throat, and my whole body freezes. I know it’s insane, but somehow, somehow, I prayed you were still here. That it was all just a joke, of questionable taste, but a joke all the same. That what you’d left behind for me was really you. That, upon opening the door, I’d find you sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing at me for thinking that you’d ever leave without telling me, thinking that you’d ever just up and go-

I’d laugh and hug you, and everything would be all right.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d also say that you weren’t truly going to move. That your parents had changed their minds, that the city suited them better--

Maybe.

Only no, this room’s empty. There’s nothing but a piece of paper lying on the window sill, like a fallen leaf dropped in from the front yard. Crossing the dusty wooden floor, I snatch up the sheet and sink to the floor.

Dear Rena, I read.

I’m sorry.

I know you think this is unfair, just as I do--but maybe, maybe it’s for the best? We never really had to say goodbye. Don’t. Goodbye’s too sad. “see you later” works better, because I will see you later. I’ll find you. It’ll be like old times.

Time’s running out. Sorry. I can see you crying right now, so please don’t. Please don’t, because then it’s like I’ve died. I haven’t died. I’m still alive, and so are you. And listen to me--people are so hard on you, but don’t let them hurt you. I want you to remember this, okay? You’re my image of perfect. You always have been. If nobody’s perfect, than you’re the closest to it. 

I’d tell you I love you, but you already know that.

See you later, then.

The paper floats from my hand, buffeted by the gales escaping the window-

I don’t cry, don’t speak. Simply sit there, stock still, listening to the wind blowing, to my own breaths, even and slow...

I watch your letter zoom across the room, before hitting the door and crumpling in a heap to the ground. 

See you later, then.

You left behind no name, no signature.

Why?

It’s as if--

As if you don’t want me to remember. 

You want the paper to have been from anyone. Like you want yourself to fade from my memory, someday disappear--I still know you too well.

But why? 

Why do you want me to forget you?

Slowly, my hands grip the sill. They propel me up, and I prop myself against the wall, breathing hard with my effort. I move across the room, swaying on the threshold like a drunk. 

It’s odd, this feeling-

I feel light as air.

But it’s not a floating feeling, it’s more like-

Like emptiness.

Like I don’t really exist.

My hands shoot out and grab the doorframe to steady myself. I feel the solid wood against my palm, my fingers clenched around the edge-

Still here, then.

My eyes rest on the paper. Drawing a breath, I head downstairs.

The paper stays on the floor, still unsigned.

Both of your parents remain on the driveway, speaking lowly to each other; their expressions are inscrutable. When I pass by, they both pause in their conversation to look at me. No one says a word as I drift from your home, down the street. 

I feel like nothing. Absolutely nothing. 

I leave no marks as I pass, no footprints--even if I weren’t here, everything would be exactly the same.

So how do I know I’m here, exactly?

Without you around, who will remind me?

My feet are moving, but I don’t feel them connect with the ground. The breeze toys with my hair, but it seems like someone else’s locks. Vaguely, I feel cold. 

Colder than ever.

“She’s gone,” I hear, breathy like a whisper, after I’ve put four houses between myself and them.

The wind carries to me the sound of the backyard gate swinging open-

I turn, a stray breeze whirling my hair before my eyes-

And you step out-

For a long moment, we just gaze at each other.

Why?

Why’d you do that?

Then you give me that sad shake of the head, and I understand.

I know why. 

Thank you.

You raise a hand. “See you,” you murmur.

I wave back, whisper, “Goodbye.” You smile, briefly. It doesn’t reach your eyes. 

Slowly, I turn away. Away from you. 

Don’t look back, I picture you saying.

I walk away, feeling the thud of my feet against the pavement, feeling the breezes tangle my hair, lashing at my cheek. 

I’m still alive, and so are you. 

I know.

A little bit of good means a little bit of bad later.

So does that mean a little bad now means a little good later?

Silently, I make my way down the street, passing again the old woman on the porch. She nods at me, smiles.

I smile back. 

Don’t look back.

I won’t.

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A/N: This is a short story, so this is where it ends. People've asked me what happens next, when I'll update—I might update to revise some chapters, but otherwise, it's pretty much finished. Feel free to tell me what you think (just be constructive—kinda sensitive here) and, as always, feel free to add/vote/share.

Love,

Jessica