The words hit hard. I don’t know what to do with them except hold them and fully feel them. In another world, in better weather, I could have loved him, too. But here, in this world, that love could never exist without drowning us both, and we knew that.
It’s silent for a few minutes. Just us accepting what was and what will never be, and understanding there was both beauty and destruction that came from our messed-up relationship. And I wouldn’t change any of it.
“Can I walk you home?” he asks, standing up and putting his hands in his hooded sweatshirt pockets so he won’t reach for me, “to your apartment?”
“Yeah, I’d like that.”
We barely speak as we walk side by side, closer than we probably should. The silence feels comforting, though, like the closing of a chapter doesn’t have to be some big, ugly thing between us.
When we get to my building, I stop at the base of the stairs and turn toward him. He doesn’task to come up, and he doesn’t ask to see me again, which is both a relief and makes my heart sad. Instead, he just slightly opens his arms and waits for me. I step into the hug, and it’s long in that way goodbyes are when you both know it has to be this way, even if you wish it didn’t. He smells like smoke and laundry detergent and a lot of memories I’ll be holding onto. I let myself feel it. All of it. And I let myself say goodbye to that version of me while my cheek is pressed against his hoodie.
It stings a bit to let go of. To let go of him. The security he was for so long. The comfort he provided me. The attention I craved but wasn’t able to give back to him.
After holding me for long enough, he finally speaks.
“Take care of yourself,” he says into my hair.
“You too,” I whisper back into his chest.
He lets go first and takes a step backward. Then another.
“Goodbye, Lyd.”
“Goodbye, Atlas.”
When I step into the elevator, the rougher emotions and anxiety finally catch up to me. Yet I also feel oddly at peace with everything. It feels new and scary, but promising. Like I officially said my goodbyes to that life.
Our dorm door is cracked, and I push it open. Lani and Simone are lying on one of the beds covered in blankets. Lani’s hair is tied in a messy bun, and Simone is wearing a large college T-shirt and mismatched socks. They look so happy and cozy…until they look up and see the whirlwind of emotions written all over my face.
“Are you okay?” Lani asks as she stands.
I open my mouth to respond, but end up crying instead. Neither of them asks any questions; they just come over to me and pull me into a hug. It’s probably the kindest thing they could do—just let me feel and not make me talk about it.
Eventually, the tears slowdown, and the tightness in my chest eases. My eyes feel heavy and puffy, and I am completely drained. But it doesn’t feel like a bad kind of drained. It feels good; it feels like starting over. It feels like I’ve finally made more room for the future.
65
Bash
This morning, practicum runs long.We’re in a building that was clearly not meant to hold this many students. There are eleven of us in here. We talk about limitations and pacing, and when to let a silence breathe instead of suffocating it with patients. Dr. Alvarez has us pair up to practice verbal and nonverbal communication with patients that aren’t condescending.
“Try it without the training wheels,” he says, pacing in front of us. “No stiff robot voices. Just be a person.”
I’m partnered up with Marco, a guy who just vibes through every class and somehow makes it work. His humor gets him out of trouble, and he uses that effortless way he has with talking to people to his advantage. Makes it feel easy to open up to people like him.
We rotate through skills until my head has that buzzing tension headache from thinking too hard. At the end of class, people shuffle papers and laptops into backpacks and rush out. Marco slides up next to me as I’m zipping my bag closed.
“You applying out of state?” he asks.
“No clue,” I admit. “I keep looking at everything from MSW to MFT to a counseling psych MA. Seminary’s still yelling in the corner, too. I think I want to stay here, possibly for grad work, though. Not sure yet. I like being close to home.”
He laughs. “You and everyone else. I’m talking to my aunt about placements. She runs intake at Riverline Community Health. They take interns every summer. It’s not glamorous. Lots of Medi-Cal and crisis, but you’ll never be bored. If you want, I could pass your name on.”
My stomach does a cautious littleyes. “That’d be huge, man. Thank you.”
“Also,” he says, glancing toward the door, “I did a stint on the crisis line downtown. It is…intense. But if you want hours that actually teach you to sit in the dark, that’s the place.”
I nod. “Yeah. Sitting in the dark seems to be the job.”
