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You are no angel, Phoebe.
Not some vigilante who comes to show me how to pronounce change. I didn’t want to be better, and sadly, that is why I left.
Not because every time I stared into your eyes, I could feel how deeply my sorrow went. Every morning I woke up next to you, needed to be inside you; I was desperate to be devoured by what you had to offer me because it was the first rush of kindness I had experienced.
We may have been runaways, but you fled a safe home while I wandered away from a condemned one.
My hand begins to cramp, and I rub out the lines on my palm. It reminds me of watching TV together, how my hands always found their place with yours. Your thumb used to swirl around with pressure. I’d rub your back, and we got into this routine of being with each other. I couldn’t tell if you loved it. I didn’t know if I did; it was just what it was, where we got to, and I didn’t decide either way.
But you were wrong to stop a stranger’s argument. Your bravery has insulted me more than once.
Phoebe, you were wrong to save me.
No matter how much I love you. No matter how long I keep denying it. Been screwing it up for a decade now. How long will the torture continue? How long will you force yourself to stop wandering?
It’s every minute for me; I smell your scent, ache to caress the angle of your face. The way a permanent Z is tattooed on the back of your neck like you’ve been waiting to be claimed by me.
You always thought it was strange that X marked the spot, and to be different, you decided Z did. A treasure is never to be found because who wants to bury treasure if it’s been seen before?
I was twenty-one, but you had already been worldwide, making my adventures seem puny and unworthy of remembrance. The worst part is you asked if I had a passport, and I said yes. You offered me a ride to Peru, to Machu Picchu, and I was a fucking idiot because I said yes.
That was our first trip together. Our first time where we went from strangers to friends. I couldn’t believe I followed some stranger, but my seat was next to yours by the time we got on the plane. I knew who Phoebe Yoshioka was; I looked at every picture. Just to make sure you weren’t going to sell my organs when we hit South American land.
Calm, it’s the word that bubbles to the surface when I look over at you. Your head was trying to listen to the elderly couple in front of us.
Phoebe tried to pretend she wasn’t beautiful; I wanted to deny it too, but the more I pushed away from the claim, the more evident it became.
When you get involved with someone, the more you like them, the more attractive they become. But I didn’t want Phoebe like that; I wasn’t at that level. Yet it was hard not to be when her image was made to be worshipped.
When her eyes met mine, she smiled, and I smiled back. I felt lucky, the feeling a fresh one. I put my eyes down to my hand, and then she leaned her head on my shoulder. I don’t know what I did to make her trust me. I didn’t want to know; I just wanted her to keep doing it. Because the trust wasn’t conditional with her, it didn’t have ulterior motives. It wanted the best for me, and I performed the best for it.
We had hours to get to know each other on that plane ride, but we mainly kept the shy silent. It wasn’t suffocating or uncomfortable; it was like I had been traveling with you for years. There I was able to find my calling, and you were able to find love. I was soon going to become a permanent travel partner.
Phoebe, wherever you are, I want to thank you. I’m sorry I ran away so fast you didn’t have time to catch up. You didn’t have time to put on shoes, but you would have run barefoot with bleeding feet to keep up with me.
I love you, Phoebe. I want to pretend basic training gave me those weeks to get through the heartbreak to get over you. But it’s now before I leave for A school that has me sitting inside my feelings. Realizing I am lost without you. Bending over to an odd angle to please everyone that asked. But your tongue never demanded anything from me, and it is you who I hurt the most.
Our final time was a goodbye, and I can’t pretend I didn’t make a mistake myself. I picked you to cut ties because I believed you would handle it the best. But you don’t answer my calls, you don’t reply to my messages, and the panic sets in because, holy shit, are we actually done? Is this it?
Why won’t you talk to me?
The only person I want to chat about my broken heart with is my heart first.
Pick up the phone, Phoebe. I’m on the other end, waiting. Pick it up and let me fix this, let me fix us. Please, baby, let me show you how much I love you.
I’ve stopped counting the messages because I might think it looks desperate or even creepy if I keep a tally. But you don’t mind, do you, Pheebs? It’s not like you are reading them.
“Why are you sulking?” My brother comes into my bedroom while I lay on my bed.
“I’m not sulking, asshole.”
“Nice tongue, you. Did you use that on your girlfriend and why she left you?” My little brother slaps my leg.
“Get out, fuck face.” There is a reason we have never been close. He’s an asshole, and I am not, until now. Keeping the family legacy alive and well. My father would be proud.
“Better not be a crybaby when we go fishing in Maine. Or I might just do you a favor and throw you over board.” Like I said, asshole.
“Are you going to throw a tantrum if I catch bigger fish than you, just like you did when we were kids?” This makes him glare at me and walk away. Leaving me to wonder if they will try and locate my body if I tip off and freeze into an ice cube or just put me next to the polar bears in the museum exhibit.
