Shallow Imitations

chapter forty-two

It's been a year since I first started therapy.

It was after everything unfolded that Kal and I started talking about it. He thought it would be a good idea to talk to somebody and make sense of the way I was feeling. One session, he promised me, and I can get out if it make me uncomfortable. The same day I came in, I booked two sessions a week for the next one. And then it slowly dwindled to one and the nothing. It took a lot of courage for me to tell my therapist that I don't want to do this anymore, that I think I can do it on my own. She said that this meant that I'm ready. Whatever that meant.

We talked about everything. Writing, Atlas, my parents, and my nightmares. I don't get those anymore. She let me rant about anything, even if it veered off topic. She told me I would be okay.

Turns out it had a name.

They call it temporary depression. It comes when someone goes through a lot of things all at once and longer for a couple of years before freeing itself from the person. I'm not sure if I'm free just yet, but I think things are getting better.

I've been writing a lot. Every day I spent dribbling something, whether it's a journal of whatever I'm feeling in that moment or a new book I'm working on.

Kal has been writing too. After everything that happened, he started writing this book about a boy who suffers from prosopagnosia but doesn't know it. It's a neurological disorder where the person can't recognize people's faces even if he knows them well. He can see all the different parts, nose, eyes, and such, but not recognize who that person is. It's an odd topic, but he likes navigating through uncharted territory. He started it a month or so after we decided to take some time off from whatever relationship we've developed. We talked every now and then, but he immersed himself in his work. He wrote the first draft and read it out loud to me. That's when we tried to make sense of it and decide what things to cut out. And he mailed me the second draft to read on my own. That's when it started to sound like a novel.

The third draft I read after his new editor, Katie, dissected each sentence. She cut off all the strong language and made him add on to it. Kal's writing is the opposite of mine. He focuses more on action than emotion and description, his writing quick and to the point. He used a lot of strong language, all of which Katie deleted.

After that, he got a publishing deal and sold the book for a good chunk of money. They battled through title changes and a few covers before they settled everything. He told me they're planning on it hitting the shelves in five months. They're still advertising for it.

I'm still taking my time. The last time I wrote a letter to Atlas was the day I met Kal. Now my writing has all the people I've lost and the people I love twisted along the margins. Atlas lives in those pages in the inside jokes and mentions of favorite books. You can only see it if you really knew him. Kal can.

He's doing the same thing too, but I don't think he knows it. He tells me about his parents and grandparents all the time. They live in his books without him trying to put them there. He writes them into characters, in the way they talk or the way they leave without warning.

While he's been living with a typewriter and a ruthless editor, I've been keeping up with friends and moving houses. I got a bigger apartment. It's nicer and far enough away from all the places I've made a habit of visiting. Now I have to find a new coffee shop and a bookstore and more salespeople to get acquainted with. But I still see Henry and stop by Mugshot. He doesn't work there anymore.

Eleonora helped me take out everything we kept in the storage space. She took some and I took some. The art out parents collected hangs on our walls. Dad's medieval armor stand is in the living room of my apartment. El thinks it's creepy, but Kal likes talking to him sometimes. It creepy me out when I see it standing there in the middle of the night. Whenever I'm startled by it, Kal just bursts into fits of laughter.

Five months ago, when Kal came over to tell me that his book is coming along well and that it'll be published soon, we decided to end everything.

The distance, I mean.

He told me that he's taking a break to relax and not think about the possibilities of a typo making it into his book or Katie deleting one of his silly jokes without telling him (which would never happen).

We started seeing each other.

For real this time.

It wasn't easy letting myself fall into someone else. He's always on edge too, trying to keep us a shield. We don't like talking about the painful stuff, so we put it aside. The distance helped make me feel less guilty.

Five months we've been seeing each other. We've known each other for a year and a half, almost. It seems like a good time, like we're ready to start something slow. Last week, he started bringing in the boxes of all his things. I have too many books and he has too many clothes, but we're learning to compromise.

Kal has a three-month break before he starts touring. We decided to take a long trip, to backpack through Europe (except we're just carrying small backpacks and actually staying in cheap hotels). It might be inspiring, but it'll defiantly be a good bonding experience. He's never on time and always hogging the shower, burning breakfast and suddenly deaf whenever he's reading. The TV is too loud and he likes to play music until our neighbors complain.

I must have my own set of issues, but I can't think of any right now.

Either way, he's here for good, I think and I like that idea.

When I wake at seven in the morning, I see that he's making breakfast. I can small it all the way in the bedroom. "Don't burn anything, Kal!" I yell out.

I step out into the living room. His books are on my bookshelves. We decided to split them up. Mine are all white and his are blue. The black ladder bookcase that Atlas kept his books in is still there, just not displayed so openly. I keep them in the office where I have a desk space to write. I go there whenever I need to get away from Kal and his loud music. Why can't he just write in silence or wear headphones like normal people? I think I'm gonna get him headphones for his birthday this year. It'll be funny but hopefully useful too. Otherwise I'll go mad.

"I'm doing fine," Kal yells back. Just as he does, I hear the sound of a pan clattering on the floor. "Shit!"

I laugh and Kal groans in the kitchen.

The floor-to-celling windows emit light into the room. It gives me some sort of productivity while Kal thinks it makes it hard to watch TV. For someone who's constantly either writing or thinking about writing, he watches a lot of TV. It's weird being the one to pull him off the couch and get him out of the house.

He's yet to unpack all his boxes and he's yet to pack for the trip which is in three days. Kal always leaves things for the last minute while I've been packing for two weeks now. My checklist is ready to be ticked off. There are so many things I need to get done. I live by milestones now. We'll get to see Paris for the first time and it'll be Kal's first plane ride. When I come back, my writing will be waiting for me. Or maybe I'll start writing something new.

I haven't yet found a suitable job, but I think I'm sticking to the freelance route until I find representation.

At least I'm writing.

That's a good start.