along the road

that night | 2016 | age 17

            Tonight is the night I rid myself of you. 

         That's what I tell myself as I rub lotion into my skin, over every curve and edge. That's what I whisper as my sweater slides onto my torso, my feet slip into my favourite shoes—ones that I know, instinctively, that you'll like. That's what I hum as I hop into the car, conversations between a fumbling friend and her exuberant mother filling my ears more than your name.

                      But, I think, some part of me knew that wouldn't be the case.

                         I still smile when you enter—an earth-shattering kind of joy, one breathtakingly similar to the moment I saw you and thought here he is. Your eyes have transcended into a different kind of blue, one that I can almost swim in, one that has drowned me since that chilly evening, under a blanket that reeked of someone else's home, our breaths fanning each other's faces, our words sacred and whispered. You still have that boyish smile, but it's different—tweaked, ever so slightly. I can't figure out why.

                      And that's when I see her. A blonde, beautiful girl, lingering at your side, her manicured hand clutching yours tightly. She seems like the type you'd go for—shorter than you are, a face so angled it looks like it was birthed from meticulously chiselled marble, aesthetically pleasing in the sense that you two would look good together. And you do. You really, really do.

                                You introduce me to her, a fizzled ember colliding with the current roaring fire, both of us soothed by the tranquil ocean that is your voice. Your hand remains plastered on the arch of her back, and I find myself smiling. When I hug her—because that's what I do, hug the current lovers of my former flames, love everyone more than you could ever love anyone—I bite my lip, afraid that I'll say something I shouldn't.

                    "I hope his love isn't a hand-me-down," I want to whisper into her tiny ear, hidden from sight by those blonde strands. "I hope he means it when he kisses you. I hope he doesn't lie to you. I hope you can see it when he does."

                         I realize that I've held on a bit too long, and I part from her, a smile gracing my face, an unsettled emotion dusting her cheeks. I find myself continually lamenting—I hope you're his sunshine, I hope you are his dream, I hope he doesn't burn you, I hope he rubs aloe into your skin when he does, I hope—

                 "Help me out with the food," a girl whispers—the one with the high-pitched voice, an unlikely, possibly situational friend. I nod, and we cut rolls in half as chicken sizzles on the grill and conversations burst all around us.

                         "I'm sorry," another girl says, softly, her cold hands brushing against my cheek. I smile. It feels genuine—unhurt, innocent, alive. "I really thought you two were going to make it."

               I blink. A frown is twisted onto her mauve lips, wide eyes staring at him and her—the beautiful couple, smiles all around. She rests against his lap, a bird settling into her nest, and his arms wrap around her, and so they remain.

                       "I did, too." I say. It's as quiet as it is relieving, silent as it is reassuring. I did; now I don't. The past must remain in the grave I have marked for it. That pain must writhe in soil that I cannot—must not—sink my roots into. His voice and eyes and laugh and ghost of a touch must all linger in the space allocated for them; in the atmosphere, between the stars and our blue sky, far out of reach from these trembling fingertips.

                  "Are you okay?" the girl whispers, her lips moving like some kind of dream; slow, smooth, perfectly paced, beautiful. I look at her, watch her eyes stare into mine before I feel a tug at my hand, and a hard squeeze. "He never deserved you, anyway. You're meant for someone else; someone who isn't blind, or afraid, or undecided. You're meant for someone who is sure about you."

                       Then, she says something that still echoes across the caverns of my mind.

            "Until that person comes along," she says, her voice drowning out every other sound, the drop in the ocean that changes the tides, "you're gonna have to be sure about yourself."

☀

                     I don't know why, but it's okay.

                Maybe it's seeing your face; the emotion (or lack thereof) strewn across the smooth vanilla and hefty dimples, the strands of hair you push back with an enviable ease. Maybe it's hearing your voice; the lilts that you think nobody notices, premature words resting on your lips until you cut them off, how your laugh gallops across the parking lot. Maybe it's knowing that you're near; feeling the heat that radiates from you, being certain that I could stretch and have my fingertips graze against the fabric of your shirt, breathing in your smell and never regretting it.

                            It's more than okay, really—I'm calm. I'm centred. I'm less sad than I was a day ago, and it all came down to a ten-minute conversation that drifted in and out of sense. Me, rambling; you, amused, but patient. I would say that I've always loved that about you, but I don't know if that's the truth anymore.

                  Things are good. I am good. It's simple, really: some people aren't meant to crush the skies and ruin the world together. I was not destined to hold your hand; you were not born to breathe me back to life. You, being with me, having me, doesn't change that. The world still turns, flames still burn, clocks still tick and tock into eternity.

                       Stars don't align for people like us. Maybe, they were never meant to.

☀

A bit of context: it was one of my friend's birthday parties, and he was there. We all went to a club, and this boy and I ended up taking a walk to the corner store and talking the entire way there. It felt a bit like old times. However, I could not let that blind me.

I spoke my truth. He said nothing.

When I got home, I felt quite peaceful. Like, "I have done all that I could do. I tried."

And it's okay. Everything is okay.

Thank you for reading. I love you.

—jay.