Something shinier comes along.
They pursue that, leaving the people who were there for them by the wayside.
And, then,worse, if their new relationship doesn’t work out, they reappear and expect you to pick them back up, comfort them, return to exactly how things were. If you don’t, they guilt you. They blame you. They make passive aggressive comments. They make you feel like crap every time they stick their stupid nose back in your business, reminding you that there’s still an open wound where your best friend used to be.
For years, I had a friend named Talira. We did everything together. We texted constantly. We were on the phone everymoment we were apart. I knew her better than anyone. She knew me better than my own twin sister.
And, then, we were sixteen, and she found a boyfriend.
Our calls got shorter.
She stopped texting first.
I only ever heard from her whenever there were problems in her relationship.
She dumped me; a horrible year full of broken decisions and consequences I had to face alone passed; he dumped her.
And then—suddenly—she wanted me back to pick up the pieces.
When things obviously couldn’t be the same as they once were when I trusted her with everything, she blamed me. She guilted me at every corner, wondering why I waspunishingher when she’d just come out of such a rough and toxic relationship.
Hewas the bad guy, didn’t I know?
Sure. Yeah. I do. All guys are the bad guys in one way or another.
Youchosehim, though. Over me.
But I let her. Ilether. I didn’t fight or complain. I just let it happen. So I tried to get over the feeling of betrayal, the feeling of having come out of my own nightmare choices without her support. I tried to take accountability for my part to play in our friendship coming apart.
Itried.
But I just couldn’t feel safe around her anymore. I never knew when she’d pick someone else over me again, so then, when graduation hit, I let things naturally erode. Yet she still, every so often, sends me a message on Leopard, comments on posts I make,keeps coming back. Whenever I least expect it. Whenever I’m least prepared.
I’d block her if I didn’t feel so bad doing it. I know that she’s not a horrible person. She just made her decisions. And it’s myfault I haven’t told her to leave mecompletelyalone. But I don’t know how to. I still don’t want to hurt her. I just…can’t let myself become the one someone I love so much leaves behind. Not again.
I give everything to the people I adore. I bend over backwards. I suffer neglect. I make excuses. I allow every chance.
Talira did a number on my ability to trust relationships. Add my own brief foray intoromanticgarbage during the year we were apart and then Maelin’s situation with her ex Harry—a six-year relationship that dissolved in an afternoon last year—to the mix, and I’m not interested in cultivating anything that can rust anymore.
Grimacing, I march myself through my rounds of gathering trash and delivering it to the outdoor garbage can. I can’t dwell on these old feelings right now—or ever. They aren’t helpful. They aren’t productive. As long as I refuse to block or talk, I am subject to jumpscares whenever I check my messages.
And that’s just how it is.
It is my fault. It is a problem that has a solution, but I am letting my stupid feelings keep me from utilizing it.
Undo me.
Ha. I wish it were that simple to deal with people. If others could be controlled and commanded without ruffling any feathers, my micromanaging tendencies would be very happy.
Such a shame that free will exists. Such a big, fat, ugly shame.
Marching up to the second floor, I take a turn down the hall Maelin and Zakery live on, then I follow the sound of a chugging sewing machine toward Maelin’s craft room. Without knocking, I push open the door.
Maelin jumps, twisting in her cocoon of supplies, which unfold around her desk like a craft wardrobe to Narnia. In the abyss of black-on-black that makes up the interior, windowlessroom, my sister’s pale skin and white hair stand out almost as much as all her bright supplies. “Mora. Hello,” she greets.
“’Sup, twerp?” I march to her bed and flop face-first against the blankets. “Whatcha makin’?” Turning my head, I peer toward my big sister as she smiles.
“An apron for Lukas.”
