From under my pile of class literature, I slid out my diary and opened it. Last night’s rain missed most of my books, thankfully, but the corner of my diary got a bit wet—well, soggy was a better word.
It cracked as I opened it and turned to a blank page. The fading smell of home lingered in its binding, slowly being washed away by ageing and the sticky, inky smell of a blue pen.
So many thoughts had been written down in here from times when everything was okay—and not so okay. I fanned the edges with my thumb, considering a flip back through memory lane, but thought better. Before I knew grief, my problems were so mediocre, so unimportant. I don’t think I could stand to hear myself drone on about my hopeless thoughts on boys or friends who wouldn’t talk to me after a fight. Back then, I was so narrow-minded, so naïve and ignorant to the world. I think it’d just make me wanna throw up—or slap myself.
I grabbed a pen from my drawer and leaned over the diary, expelling every twisted, deranged and ludicrous thought in my head. The one word that stood out, though, as I read back over it, was Dad. Somewhere inside me, I still wondered if David was some hired-help my dad called on to make me okay, and now that I was okay, David had to give some lame-ass excuse to leave. Bad thing was, I wouldn’t put it past my dad to do that. And even if that wasn’t the case, it didn’t matter. I felt awful last night; I had never cried so much and I never, ever wanted to again. David had his nature-documentary timeline, and that was fine. But I didn’t have to put up with it. If he really had to leave in the winter, then he could go, but I wouldn’t let him destroy my heart on the way out.
I snapped my diary shut and stood up. I had to end it now.
With a new sense of purpose, I jammed my iPod into the dock and blasted my Girl Power playlist. If I was going to take a new approach to life, then I’d need a montage—and a sexy outfit.
I sang along, making a huge mess as I pulled nearly everything out of the neat little crevices in my wardrobe, then tossed my jeans, red tank top, and the only heeled shoes I owned into the bathroom. Then, in true montage style, shut the bathroom door and emerged again as the new, sexy, I-don’t-take-no-crap me—complete with red lip-gloss.
I stopped by my dresser to dash on some mascara, and the soulless face of my past stared back at me. “Don’t pout,” I said to her. “We’re breaking up with him, and that’s that!”
The front door slammed a little as I stepped out onto the porch, and, okay, so that didn’t feel so good, but the new me wanted it to. And she walked fiercely toward the roadside, her head down, eyes away from what she knew was waiting there. Then, as the montage music ended with an abrupt and sudden silence inside my head, I looked up at him, and my resolve wavered; he sat on a tree stump, his head in his hands, bag on the ground by his feet, forcing an ache in my heart.
But the new me in the heeled shoes stood taller, gave a not-so-gentle reminder of why we were doing this, and screamed, No more David Knight.
He stood up as I crossed the street, his eyes practically bulging from his head. “Ara? My God, you look amazing.”
I shrugged away from his touch, nearly falling backward as the heels of my pretty black shoes, so out of place on the thick turf, sunk into the ground.
“Ara?” His eyes narrowed, studying my face. “Don’t. I know what you’re going to say. Please don’t.”
“I’m sorry, David, it’s better this way.” The words felt like shards of glass in my throat. “Look, yesterday was great and all, but we both know where this is going. I don’t see the point in dragging it out.”
“Dragging it out?” His shoulders came forward with his words. “We love each other, Ara—spending our last few months together is not, by any means, dragging things out.”
“It is to me. You’re the one leaving—you don’t have to care, you don’t have to suffer like I do.”
“Is that what you think?” He stepped into me; I stepped back, raising my hands. “Ara, you know nothing about what I will suffer for leaving you.”
“You’re right. I don’t. Because you never tell me anything.”
“I can’t tell you. Don’t you understand that?”
“Why should I? Why can’t you just be honest with me?”
“You don’t want to know—you told me you don’t want to hear about my dark world!”
I shuffled my feet, folding then unfolding my arms. “Maybe I’m ready now.”
He didn’t expect that. He doubled back a little, rubbing his head. “There are so many things, Ara. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
“How ‘bout the reason you’re leaving.”
“I—” The words hung just on the exit of his lips; I tensed. “I…I can’t.”
“Then you can forget me staying friends with you.” I turned away.
“I’m afraid of what you’ll think of me,” he said, and I stopped walking. “I’m afraid, because I know how sweet you are, how, despite what you think about yourself, how kind and loving and warm you are.”
“So, you think I can’t handle the truth?”
He smiled softly. “I know you can’t.”
I looked away, breathing out.
“Look, we have a few months left. I just want you like this—my sweet, beautiful girl who loves me; who looks at me like I’m good. I couldn’t bear it if you hated me, Ara. I can’t bear this—” he motioned to the distance between us. “Please don’t break up with me.”
“I have to, David.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I’ll fall more in love with you.” I forced back tears. “If I keep doing this, it’ll only make me break down when you’re gone—and I won’t get back up this time. I’ve got nothing left in me.”
“Oh, Ara. Please don’t say things like that.” I heard it in his voice, the way my words crushed him. “All I ever wanted was for you to be okay again.”
“Yeah, well—” I looked right into him, making sure my words hit the deepest part of his heart. “Now you’re the one breaking me.”
He folded over, propping his hands to his knees.
“Bye, David,” I turned away. “And please don’t talk to me if we pass each other in the hall.”
“Do you really mean that, Ara?” His voice travelled across the distance effortlessly, carrying the entire weight of his confusion.