The Way Out

I’d dreamt of it a million times

in a myriad of different grasping ways,

but I’d never gotten that close before;

I’d never let my hand wade through the smoke,

palm up,

for anything that looked like help

(for you who looked like help).

The Songstress

            The first time you say something is always the hardest. Every time after that the impact is a little less. Press your body against the truth, and know that once it has passed through your lips you can no longer control it.

            It feels like pyramids will fall at the sound of these words; they won’t, I promise. They will crush everyone in the room around you, but people are resilient; they will pop back into place and go on ignoring the damage if you let them. You will learn that the sentences that float through your brain are less powerful than you ever could have imagined. They call you and seduce you, but no one else can even hear them.

            Whistle, my love. Whistle until the horses come back. Your conjuring of the past makes everyone uncomfortable; seep into it anyways. Let it fill you and move you and change the way you write. There’s nothing for us here, so let us build something new. We must start by knocking down walls and imagining the house we will live in someday.

Hello, My Name is Panic Disorder

            She tried not to look disappointed when he walked into the coffee shop. Naomi wanted to be the type of person who didn’t judge people so automatically; she wanted to wait until they peeled themselves back before she made any decisions about their places in her life. Still, it was apparent that the picture he used on his profile was the best picture he had ever taken. Naomi swallowed and glanced down at the table. They hadn’t made eye contact yet. There was still time for her to slip out.

            But . . . What if that picture had captured something about him that he only let out in front of friends? What if this was the persona he pulled on when first meeting someone, if only to keep his guard up. Naomi could understand that. Maybe it wasn’t his physical features that she had been attracted to. Maybe he chose that picture for his profile because his true nature showed up in it, and she had recognized it. Maybe this was the moment that would change her life forever; that she could tell her children about years from now. She looked back up.

            She knew instinctively that his smile was more confident than hers. “Hi,” he said. “Are you Naomi?”

            She fixed the strap of her dress. “Yeah, hi, I am,” she said. She extended her hand, but then regretted it. Dates don’t shake hands. “Are you Tony?” He nodded and took her hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

            He ran his fingers through his messy brown hair. This drew Naomi’s eye and made her wonder if he had run a comb through the tangled locks before heading out. It didn’t seem like it. Then she kicked herself again for being judgmental.

            “Shall we?” she said, gesturing to the counter. He smiled and nodded and they walked the few feet to the register.

            They stood as if they had known each other for longer than thirty seconds; as if they had met up here on purpose. No, that was silly; of course they had met up here on purpose. Naomi scratched an itch on her face.

            “You’re getting coffee?” she said. “I’m not sure if I am. It’s kind of late.”

            “Oh no,” he said. “I don’t drink coffee.”

            Naomi paused. “So . . . why did you suggest we meet up for coffee?”

            He shrugged, a rough and nervous gesture. “I don’t know. It seemed like the thing people do.”

            She nodded, although she didn’t admire his lack of creativity. He ordered a blueberry muffin and she got hot chocolate. What had felt like an extremely grown-up coffee date suddenly fell back into the eighth grade. Their order came out and they went to sit down at the nearest table. An awkward silence grew and shuddered between them.

            “So,” he said, grasping for anything, “tell me about your writing process.”

            “I, um, what?” she said. Naomi knew he was only asking because they had chatted about it online, but it wasn’t an easy question to answer. In fact, it was probably the most startling and conversation-stunting question he could have asked.

            “Your writing process or, you know, what you like to write about,” he smiled and shrugged reassuringly.

            “Um, well, you know, it’s like how I tried to explain it before. And if I can’t explain it via written words, then I don’t think I’m going to do much better with speaking.” Tony pulled off a piece of muffin and popped it into his mouth. “But, um, I don’t know, I guess you could say I write contemporary fiction.” He raised his eyebrows. “Which sounds super pretentious, I know, but it’s kind of the easiest blanket term I can use. Um, I don’t know . . . I like to write about people and . . . how they got to be how they are?”

            He did not look impressed, and Naomi didn’t blame him. She let the end of her sentence sit on the air for a moment. Then he said, “So like . . . what’s the last thing you wrote about?”

            “The last thing . . .?” she said. It occurred to her that he must be thinking she was very stupid.

            “Yeah, like the last thing you’re proud of yourself for writing. What was the plot?”

            Naomi could see her fingers shake as she reached for her hot chocolate. “Well, the last big thing I worked on was a novel.”

            His eyes finally lit up. “A novel!” he said. “That’s so cool! What was it about?”

            She looked away and watched the two girls sitting at the table next to them. They were staring intently at their computers, but their faces were set in relaxed concentration. Naomi felt the overwhelming desire to switch places with them run through her. Then she snapped back. “It was about rape culture,” she said. “I wrote a novel about rape culture.”

            He blinked. “I’m sorry, what culture did you say?” he said.

            “Um, rape,” she said. “You know, when victims are blamed for their own assault and rapists are rarely punished what they’ve done. And when aspects of rape are woven into the everyday media we consume” She nodded as though enthusiasm might help her out.

            “Um, that’s really cool,” he said, although his face had gone pale. “You know, that you wrote a novel, not . . . rape culture.”

            “Yep,” she said, and nodded some more.

            “So . . . are you really involved in . . . thinking about things like that?” Tony said.

            “I read a lot of feminist blogs,” she said. “So probably more than the normal person, but not like . . . an abnormal amount.”

            “Well, you wrote a novel about it, though,” he said. He ran his fingers through his hair again. This nervous gesture made Naomi feel a little better. Maybe he was worrying more about what he was saying than the fact that she had mentioned rape and feminism within fifteen minutes of meeting him. “So if you read a lot of feminist blogs . . . what did you think about Emma Watson’s ‘He for She’ speech?”

            It was a good question, and he was clearly reaching for a subject that he thought she would be interested in. The problem was, she had never gotten around to actually watching the speech. “I, um, I think it was good,” she said, wanting to die. “I think it was super necessary, for, you know . . .” This was not the best time to find out how bad she was at bullshitting her way through a conversation.

            He looked at her. Then he looked at the empty muffin wrapper in front of him. “Look . . .” he said, “do you want to maybe go on a walk around the area. You can lead the way, since you know it better. I just think . . . it might be more comfortable for both of us.”

            Relief flooded through Naomi. “Yes,” she said, “I really, really want to do that.”

            They got outside and Naomi pulled her sweater on. She pointed down the sidewalk and they fell into a comfortable walking pace. Naomi started to relax for the first time that night. They began chatting about school and what he had been up to post-graduation.

            Then he interrupted himself. “So . . . I have to ask: why online dating?”

            She shrugged. “I don’t know, why are you online dating?”

            Tony smiled. “I asked you first.”

            Her shoulder raised ever-so-slightly and she said, “I don’t know. It’s hard to meet people in person these days.”

            He nodded. “That’s true,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t know how people find each other without dating websites.”

            “Yeah,” she said, and felt the gap in the conversation opening up in front of her. All she had to do was fall into it. So she did. “And meeting people is especially difficult when you have panic disorder.”

            Naomi didn’t know if this was the right way to say it. The casual tone of her voice said there was nothing unusual about the sentence she had just uttered, but they both knew that wasn’t true. She felt stressed and scared and . . . somewhat freed by having told a complete stranger about her mental illness.

            “Panic disorder . . .” he said. “Like you have panic attacks when you see, like, train tracks or something?”

            “Um, yeah, I mean, not train tracks. But yeah, occasionally I’ll be triggered by something random like that and have a panic attack. It’s not a big deal, though,” she added, although it really, really was.

            Another silent moment passed between them. “One of my friends has panic attacks when she sees train tracks,” he said.

            “Oh really?” she said, unsure how she was supposed to respond.

            “Yeah,” he said. “Because, um, one of our friends . . . killed herself by throwing herself in front of a train.”

            “Oh,” she said. “I’m so sorry.”

            He nodded absently. “We all went on college tours together before she died.”

            “Oh, that’s so horrible,” she said.

            He nodded again. They walked in silence for a few minutes. “Anyways,” he said, “I know this isn’t really first date conversation, but . . .”

            “It’s okay,” she said. “We grew up in the same area. I’m pretty sure everyone is connected to the train suicides in some way at this point.”

            The implications of her statement hung in the air between them. Then the conversation rolled on. Never one for small talk, Naomi chatted on and on about the gentrification of the area, the faulty school policies that let victims of assault down, and how hard it was to explore the city beyond her side of town. For his part, Tony listened and passionately contributed until Naomi stopped feeling embarrassed about the way she was expressing herself. Although she knew she would have trouble conveying the tone of the date when she retold it to her roommates, Naomi reveled in the strange, dark, and stimulating turn the night had taken.

            When it got late, they started walking back towards his car. Naomi lived nearby and could easily walk home. She would have to skirt a few of the darker sidewalks and keep her eyes open, but it was doable. Besides, she knew all the security guards who were working in the area. So when Tony offered to walk with her, Naomi was quick to respond that, thanks, but she could take care of herself. She didn’t add that she wasn’t comfortable with someone who was still basically an internet stranger knowing where she lived.

            They got to his silver car, and he stepped towards it. This sudden distance between them rebuilt the tension that had dissipated when they had left the coffee shop. Tony looked at her, and Naomi suddenly realized how much she had shared with him, this person she barely knew. She felt stripped naked in a way she did not like and, more than anything, she wanted to get away.

            “Well, this is me,” he said, gesturing to his car.

            “Okay,” she said, “well, it was nice meeting you.”

            He nodded. “Yes, uh, you, too.”

            They stood there, staring at each other. Both wanted to say something about the conversation they had had, or acknowledge how weird the night had been. Did they want to do this again? Suddenly the words were too difficult to slip out.

            “Well, goodnight,” Naomi said. “Have a safe drive back.”

            “You, too,” he said. “Um, have a safe walk back.”

            “Alright,” she said, and turned away. She made it down the street and around the corner before she thought about this last interaction. It was clumsier than she had wanted, but then that was kind of appropriate for the date they had had. Naomi’s thoughts rested on the possibility of dating someone that knew about her panic disorder from the start. What a relief it would be to escape the dread of having to tell him about it later, of having to betray him by telling a lie by omission.

            Her last relationship had been irreparably damaged by this sin. Naomi had committed the fatal error of waiting past the point of when she realized she really liked the guy. She had waited until she was standing in line with him. He took off his sunglasses and looked at her and she realized, Oh shit, I really do like you. I am in some serious trouble. The impact of this thought coupled with a morning’s worth of poor self-care led her spiraling into a panic attack. Before they had gotten halfway through their food, Naomi’s throat started to close and she said she needed to leave. On the way out of the restaurant, she had haltingly explained the reality of her situation. He had taken it all as a matter of course and took her home, but this moment existed between them for the rest of their relationship. It existed when they drove home together on their next date, and it existed when, out of nowhere, he asked her if he had done anything to set off the panic. She had left out such a vital part of herself when they first met and explained who they were to each other, and this was a mistake from which it was had been too difficult to recover.

            So what if she could avoid that now? What if she had put her hands on her own narrative and shoved it in the direction she wanted? And if he wanted to see her again, that would mean something else. It would mean she was attractive beyond her illness, an idea that she had never before considered.

            But the end of their date still lingered in her mind. A gust of wind pierced through her sweater as she darted around a corner past a sketchy deli. Naomi tucked her hands into her armpits and put her head down. No matter how easily conversation eventually came between them, Tony would have that final discomfort rattling through his mind all the way home; he would have the knowledge that she now knew things about him that she shouldn’t know after a first date. The boundary of intimacy had been crossed too many times, and Naomi felt instinctually that she would never see him again.

            This fact rested on the back of her eyes and the back of her tongue. She wanted to spit it out or swallow and digest it, but it seemed too important for either of those responses. This person, this interaction, they weren’t what she wanted, but they were much closer than she had ever gotten before. Naomi wanted what everybody else did: the closeness of another human being that saw and understood her, and still wanted to be with her anyway.

            Naomi crossed the street and hopped up onto the curb. Despite having had an alternately horrible, confusing, and dark evening, she felt like things were starting to get better.

Destruct-o Girl

            I sip whiskey from a champagne glass with one eye still on the horizon. These walls have never been big enough to contain me; this country has never been big enough to contain me. I’m brave and ambitious and yet cower in fear at the sound of an airplane engine. I can see the world fall at my feet even as it crowds into my mind and makes me want to hide beneath a kitchen table. I’m sick of the dark, sick of this ache in my lower back; I’m sick of all of it and yet embrace it like my disappeared lover. No one would return to this place if there wasn’t something calling us back.

           The temptation drips down the back of my throat and I choke on it. “My love,” it says, “stay with me and watch as the tide comes in. I promise it will be worth it.” These words echo in the back of my head and I feel them in my spine. I want to make them real; make them part of me. But . . . they’re not. They’re no more a part of me than the dead cells rooted in my scalp. I shed them like an old sweater and continue walking. Even though it feels like my organs are collapsing in on themselves, I’ve no use for a second thought. These dreams have crafted me and led me here. I will follow them lovingly until my knees give out.

Life, Isolated

            Sometimes Alice couldn't help falling in love. It wasn't the type of love that had been worshipped in hundreds of years of literature and music; it was different. There weren't any romantic declarations or practiced speeches. There was simply what she felt, and that was all.

            It was always unexpected. She would be sitting in class and suddenly there it was. Someone would raise their hand and say something so worthy of her respect she couldn’t help it. She began to love them. She would go to great lengths just to be near them, waiting for another gem of irreproachable wisdom to hold onto for a few days. Of course, they would never know; they would never even suspect how she felt or what she did. She formed attachments that lasted for years without the other person having the faintest idea about them.

            Other people’s words were not all that affected her in this way; their actions served just as well. Anything that required more bravery than she possessed was, in her mind, worthy of admiration. But that wasn't all it was. Alice was capable of loving someone she did not know. Really loving them. She could hold them in her bones, withstanding any kind of injury they might do her. She could be exposed to the worst character flaws imaginable and still be able to remember the spark of good she had once witnessed; the spark that led that person into her life, unknowingly changing it forever. How could this person ever be unworthy of her forgiveness?

            She hated it. Who wanted to be that person, the one that others could walk over? The one that couldn't hold a grudge? Wasn't obstinacy a sign of strength? Alice wanted to believe that she was independent, but it simply wasn't true. She needed people to be good more than she needed anything else. Thus, she let those in her life get away with murder.

            Every morning she woke up hopeful that it would finally be the day of her breakthrough. Maybe she would get the recognition she so desired, the value and respect that she herself often gave away for free. This was what she thought about when she got dressed in the morning. This was why she continued to spend so much time on her hair and makeup, despite her total lack of human contact. Her day-to-day experience was disappointing, but the possibilities remained endless. There was still enough hope to get her out of bed.

It took a little while for it to set in that she was still alone. Doubts began to fill her mind as she walked to class. Her hand reached to open the door. There was that small feeling of mystery, the idea that the unknown awaited on the other side. Maybe today things would be different.

            As she entered the room, people looked up from whatever they were doing. It was so brief; just one moment in time. Their eyes connected with hers and her stomach flipped over. Please see me, she thought, Please just see me. Please smile or say something or even glare or frown. Please just acknowledge the fact that I am really here.

            But as quickly as they glanced up, they would glance down. She would have to accept her status as a specter in the corner of the room. Alice made her way to a desk as distant as possible from everyone else. She sat there and pretended to have something else to do, something like reading or studying. People chatted with each other as they waited for the professor to arrive, laughing and generally raising their voices. For the most part, Alice could tune them out; but never completely. Her discomfort continued to rise. Then the lecture would finally begin and she could hide behind the enforced silence.

            When it was over, Alice raced out. She didn't stay behind to remark on the topic of discussion or ask the professor a question. She didn't want to face her solitude any more than she had to. When she got back to her room, she could pretend that she was okay with the way things were. But she had to make it back first.

            Northern California wasn't always as picturesque as it was presented to out-of-staters. While the climate was usually fairly mild and predictable, there were periods of winter that were almost unbearably bleak. The sky remained grey, and the wind blew the rain sideways. Alice had difficulty functioning when it was like this. The water soaked through her clothes and affected her insides in a way that she had never been able to explain.

            She made it out of the storm and up to her room. When Alice closed the door behind her, she shut out a world. She peeled off her wet clothing and left it in a heap on the floor. She would deal with it later. Fighting her way across campus had drained all her energy. She wanted sleep. It was the middle of the day, but she wanted to curl up in a ball and feel nothing for a little while. She slipped into her bed and pulled the covers over her chilled skin.

            Alice had a particular way to organize her thoughts before she fell asleep. It involved her incredible imagination and voracious capacity for story.

            She had never had a safe home to return to, or even somewhere where she felt she could be herself. Her reality had always revolved around shame and repression and staying isolated so that nobody was forced to see who she really was.

            Instead of forming connections with other human beings, Alice constructed new realities. She created her own false history that became steadily more elaborate until she almost believed it. Then it simply existed. It became its own entity, one that she could visit on a whim. It was especially helpful in times of distress, when it became a place she could go to escape for a little while. Alice eventually grew bored of any one story and discarded it, spending the next few days crafting a new one.

            First she is mysterious and strong, the girl that everyone wonders about. People pass and can sense her pain, but don't know how to reach her. Finally, a guy about her age sees her and tries to find a way through the obstacles she has constructed. He looks like everyone and no one, and she knows how he feels about her. He loves her, the way that she loves people without really knowing them. He has found something incredible in her. At first she resists, but then she lets him in. She tells him everything that happened to her, and he is shocked because he had no idea.

            She turns over in her bed as she rides this wave of emotion. She hears the crack of desperation in her voice as she speaks the words, feels tears fill her eyes. As much as it hurts, she can't let it go.

            But then Alice reaches the point she always does with this story. She hears her father's voice in the back of her head, pulling her down. She shouldn't want to have a white knight. She doesn't need to be rescued. If there is one thing that she has learned through the years of living under his influence, it is this: she does not need to be rescued.

            So she switches over, discarding the fragments of this persona and assuming another. This one is more vivid. It is one of her favorites.

            It begins with some natural disaster, a hurricane or an earthquake that causes widespread destruction. Somehow, Alice makes it out alive. Stripped of all her loved ones, Alice wanders through the wreckage of the city, feeling lost in her immeasurable grief. Then she comes across a house. It is filled with a varying number of children who need her help. She doesn't like children, but the choices are easy. She will take care of them. She will advocate for them. Everyone will make it out alive.

            And she'll do it alone.

            It occurs to her that, even in her most outrageous fantasies, she is still alone. She shifts uncomfortably at this thought. She wonders what this means about her, this relentless need to prove that she can make it by herself.

Alice drifts away on thoughts of devastation and imagined heroics. She begins to let go and the line between truth and all-consuming fiction blurs as she falls into the oblivion of sleep.

Dripping Hands and Scorched Feet

My love, this is the last thing I will make for you, and I promise it won’t be as bitter as the rest. We have been separated forever (hopefully), but these thoughts still pool in the back of my mind.

            You were everything to me, the whole world and the rain in California. You took my hands and filled them with energy, took my bones and filled them with promises. Part of my brain still wanders in the wilderness, looking for you. Your soothing eyes are still where I left them, but they don’t hold me anymore. I walk among clouds and through rivers and sing of the things that have gone.

            Be off, then. Go out into the world and fill it with compassion until everyone drowns. You split my palms open and left me to bleed, but my wounds have long since healed. Find your voice, your real voice, and use it to call the lost back from the dark. Paint pictures and hold mirrors until the monsters can’t bear to open their eyes anymore. Love someone else, love many people, and try not to betray them. There is a space waiting for you.

            Go fill it.

The Girls in Apartment 3

            There are no dreams here, not this deep. This deep there is only silence. For a moment, I lose track of where I am; of who and what I am. I can hear my heart beating so I must be alive. The silence becomes peaceful and I float along on it until I start to fall. My head drops first, leaving my neck and torso far, far behind. I don’t remember needing to breathe, but suddenly I need to. I gasp for air that won’t fill my lungs and the panic begins to set in. There will never be another moment but this one, and suddenly I know it’s true.

            My eyes snap open and the warm darkness floods around me. I’m not off in the ether somewhere; I’m in my old dorm room. My roommate sleeps five feet away, draped gracefully across her bed. A shock of blonde hair peaks out among the folds of her fluffy black comforter. The presence of another human being soothes me, and I relax back into sleep.

~

            The bouncers don’t know who they have, but a smile helps me evade the “No Sandals” rule. My roommate glides past, asking them their names and repeating them as though she has known them for years. I hear them, but forget them instantly. She holds out a manicured hand and two of the men reach for it. She steps inside, turns around, and says, “We’ll be back soon.”

            “We will?” I say. “I thought we were here to dance.”

            She laughs. “But it’s so early! We can dance later.”

            We descend into the underground bar and she walks more confidently than I do, even though I’m the one who has been here before. I stumble over ordering my drink, but feel better once the whiskey burns into my stomach.

            “Come on,” she says.

            “What? Where are we going?” I say.

            “Back upstairs.” She turns and marches across the room, drink in hand. She glances back over her shoulder and I hurry to catch up.

            It’s a slow night at the bar and the bouncers seem glad for the company.

            “What are y’all doing back up here?” one says.

            “We’re here to hang out with you guys,” she says. “What did you think we were doing, Chris?”

            The man is taken aback by her recall of his name. A smile takes over his face. She tries to step out into the night air.

            “Hold on, ladies,” one of the other bouncers says, “we can’t let you come outside with those glasses.”
            “Alright,” she says, and leans against the doorframe, “then we’ll stay here.”

            I take another sip of whiskey. Then I start to laugh.

            “What’s so funny?” the third bouncer says.

            “You,” I say, “all of you. Why do all of you need to be here? There are, like, three people inside.”

            The second bouncer stiffens and says, “Just wait until 10 or 10:30. It’ll get crazy then.”

            She looks at me. “Oh, we’ll be long gone. That’s way past our bedtime.”

            I fall into conversation with the third bouncer and insist that I could do his job. He looks at the empty line and laughs, offering me the stool he sits on. I prop myself up on it and cross my legs. The first bouncer ogles my breasts.

            “If we had ladies like you out front, we might get a few more customers,” he says.

            She brushes past him. “No jokes, Chris, this is serious,” she says. A couple passes the line, clearly uninterested in coming inside. “IDs?” she yells after them.

~

            The first time I see my college roommate she is the picture of tiny blonde frustration. I walk into the room that we both have already moved into, passing each other by a few hours, and see her hunched over her bed. Her right hand is wrapped around a remote control and she is staring at the television sitting two feet away.

            “It’s still not working!” she says to her father, who is full of energy mixed with mild irritation. Both he and our housemate see me come into the room.

            “Hi!” he says. “It’s so nice to meet you!”

            I shake his hand. “Um, you too,” I say. I look up at her expectantly.

            “I don’t know what else to do at this point,” she says, “I think we’re going to have to call CSC.”

            “Hi,” I say, stepping forward, “I’m your roommate. It’s nice to meet you!”
            Her eyes flicker from my enthusiastic smile to my awkward demeanor. “You too,” she says, and quickly shakes my hand. She mashes a few more buttons on the remote and says, “I just don’t know what to do!”

~

            It’s only Tuesday night and I’m already on the verge of tears. I walk into our room and can’t stifle the feelings that are crawling up from my skin.

            “Hey, how was—whoa, what happened to you?” she says.

            I throw my bag on the ground. “I don’t know what I did,” I say. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

            “Um, weren’t you at—I mean, didn’t you just come from bible study?” she says. I nod. “What happened?”

            I shake my head and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s not me.”

            “What’s not you?”

            “He said it would be me, but it’s not . . . it’s her.” She waits for me to complete my thought. “He chose someone else to lead this time . . . I couldn’t . . . I don’t know what I did . . .”
            She sits there on her bed and contemplates the shape of my brow. This is a role reversal for us. “Do you think you could ask him?”

            “What?”

            “Do you think you could ask him if there was something you could change? If you did something wrong?”

            I shrug and feel my bottom lip tremble. “I don’t know . . . Maybe. I just . . .”

            She takes a deep breath. “I’m so sorry,” she says.

            I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I don’t know,” I say. A few moments pass. Then I say, “I’m going to take a shower.”

            She nods.

            I take the longest shower of my life. The hot water scalds my skin but doesn’t let me forget the things that passed only a few hours before. I feel the betrayal like something has started eating at my intestines. I get out of the shower and towel off my body. Wrapping my hair up onto my head, I walk back into our bedroom to get my pajamas.

            My roommate’s blue eyes are wide and filled with tears. She’s clutching her phone to her ear. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. I understand.” She nods her as though the person on the other end can see her. “Love you, too,” she whispers, and hangs up.

            “What—what was that?” I say.

            “It’s nothing, it’s not important,” she says, and shakes her head. Tears start rolling down her cheeks. “It’s just . . . I don’t know—it’s something with my boyfriend’s frat . . . I can’t . . .”
            I cross the space between us and hug her. We are not the hugging kind, but this moment feels important. We pull away and look at each other. Then she reaches for the handle of tequila we have left over from a night of partying.

            “If you take a pull, I’ll take a pull,” she says.

            I smile, grab the bottle, and put it to my lips.

~

            I’m back home for spring break and a Snapchat from my roommate pops up on my phone. I open it to see a low quality video of our housemate’s off-key singing. The video was shot around the door to our living room and our housemate has no idea. Ten seconds pass and then the video disappears from beneath my thumb. Then it only exists between us.

~

            It’s Halloween night and I have nowhere to go. Truthfully, I’m too sick to be out anywhere for more than an hour or two, so it doesn’t matter. But my roommate has an invitation and is trying to decide what to do. I know she wants an excuse to stay in, so we start talking about ways she could refuse. She picks up the scraps of poster we have left over from a doomed art project.

            “I can’t . . .” she writes in big block letters, “I’m busy.”

            Suddenly the stakes have been raised so I run to our room and grab a neon green trucker hat, a long brown wig, and some sunglasses. It takes us four tries to film her riding in on our housemate’s longboard, holding the sign and wearing the props, but we finally get it. I send the clip off to her friend.

            We then sit down at our kitchen table and spend the next two hours filming ourselves lip-synching to songs we have long outgrown. We never share the results with anyone, but it is one of the funnest nights of the year.

~

            I pull out of the parking garage and turn on my blinker. I have just left a particularly unsettling therapy session and I’m having trouble following my thoughts as they collapse into one another. My phone starts to ring. It’s my roommate. I slide my finger along the answer button and put it on speaker.

            “Hello?” I say, my voice tired and strained.

            “Hi!” the cheerful voice on the other end says. “Did you just get done with therapy?”

            “Yeah. I should be back soon.”

            “Do you want to maybe come home and go get frozen yogurt with me?” she says.

            I laugh and relief floods through my body. “Obviously,” I say. “When has the answer to that question ever been ‘no’?”

She laughs, too. “Good,” she says. “I’ll see you soon.”

~

            I’m sitting on my bed, staring at my computer and trying to distract myself from the feeling in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know it yet, but in a month I’ll have my heart broken in this very spot by someone living 400 miles away. I hear the front door open and feel the shake of the apartment as it closes. I know from the pace of her steps that it is my roommate, just returned from class. I subconsciously track her movement as she makes her way upstairs to our room.

            “Hey,” I say when she appears, “how was your day?”

            “It was good,” she says. “Although I had a little thing with one of the other students in my class. This guy thinks he can correct me every time—“ She stops. “What’s wrong?” she says suddenly.

            “What?” I say. “What do you mean?”

            “You’ve been crying,” she says.

            “What? How do you know?” I say. “That was like two hours ago.”

            She shakes her head as if this is a silly question. She sits down on my bed. “Of course I know,” she says. “You’re one of my best friends. What’s wrong?”

            I shake my head. “Just thinking,” I say.

            “About . . .?” she says, and we both fill in the gap.

            I nod. “I don’t know why,” I say. “I don’t know why.”

            But she looks at me knowingly. “Because you think, maybe, things could have been different if you had met at another time.” It’s not a question. “It’s hard when you obviously have strong feelings for each other, and it still isn’t right. And then you have to leave. Of course you’re sad about that.”

            I nod. “I wish I wasn’t,” I say.

            “Me too,” she says. “It hurts my heart to see you sad. It makes me feel like I don’t know what I’m doing.”

            I smile and say, “The bonded pair.”

            The light behind her eyes is joking, but her mouth is set in a serious line. “Libby, it’s real,” she says.

~

            I always thought I wanted to live alone, but I know better now. The difference is subtle and significant. It’s as though something in my DNA says it’s safer to live among numbers. I don’t notice this until my roommate leaves for the night and the emptiness becomes so palpable I have trouble sleeping. Humans weren’t meant to be so far apart; we cover our ears with our hands and call out to one another across the void.