there's this tree.

There’s this tree. A fig tree. 

Awful stuff, really.

I learned about the tree in high school English, the hardened plastic of a decades-old chair digging into my spine as I picked through the pages of another mandatory reading. Sylvia Plath and her bell jar. Obnoxious chewing on my left. A dirty sneaker balanced precariously against the metal legs supporting my weight. Sylvia was now speaking to a generation of young kids who couldn’t give two shits. I rolled my eyes and counted down the minutes to lunch, bored.

And then I fell underneath that tree. My stomach grumbled, an aching cavern as my fingers dragged through the dirt and grass. Fat, purple figs of life, dangling over my head. I squinted at the sun, my breathing laboured. I was so fucking hungry— bordering delirious with my want, nauseated. 

Who am I? Who will I be? Who should I be? I wasn’t the first person to be consumed by uncertainty, otherwise the fig tree wouldn’t exist and I wouldn’t find myself withering beneath its looming expanse. Some days I found myself wishing I could just snatch each and every one, squeeze the life from the fruit and devour its contents, juices smeared across my mouth. Others, I couldn’t bring myself to care. To want. To desire. It was far too much effort. 

On the worst days, I didn’t want to indulge in the tree’s offerings. I wanted only a shovel, so I could bury myself under it instead. 

“What do you want out of this program?” My advisor had asked me. Her office was cold, cardboard boxes pushed against the peeling walls. I’m moving, she had told me sheepishly as I entered. Please excuse the mess!

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“I know it’s not.” I felt guilty then. “I’ve just…” Always felt one thing will never be enough for me. I get bored too easily. I want change, I want spontaneity, I want security, I want danger, I want safety, I want everything and nothing and how can you ask me what I want from a program I’m not even in yet? “I’m curious. So I want to learn more, and honour that curiosity.” I don’t want to be aimless anymore, please don’t let me stay aimless.

My alarm went off at three. I pulled myself from the comforting embrace of my bed, sliding my feet into my slippers and grabbing my phone off the nightstand. My movements were sluggish, drawn out, painful. Maybe I was an idiot to think grad school would be better than staying at my 9-to-5; that I wouldn’t feel so lost anymore. Maybe I was stupider now than I was then. I should book an appointment at one of those rage rooms, I thought distantly. Maybe I just need a good scream.

I switched the light on in the lounge, yawning loudly as I dropped into the seat at my desk. Papers and bent loans from the library awaited me. The city was still screaming down below, just through the glass barrier, and I wondered how many people were actually awake at this time. More than I could imagine, probably. Three wasn’t so unreasonable after all, not when there were millions of figs up for harvest.

Then he texted. 

 And I felt myself dissipate.

I hope you’re still a night owl.

I was always scatter-brained when it came to him, and he knew it in some capacity. He knew how much he could affect me, how a single coffee might end up ruining my life. But he was the same, stubborn and impulsive, and maybe he wanted to be wrecked by this. I guess some part of me was eager as well. It’d been too long since I’d last heard his voice, and I must have been spiralling already because I texted back with little delay. 

It was 3:40 when he knocked on my door, a gentle sound that felt like a bolt running straight through me. My stomach was hurting, but he had a smile tugging at his lips and warmth in his eyes and I thought God, I missed you. Why did you have to leave? But he was thinking the same thing, and that was always the crux of the matter. Neither of us would stay.

“You look good,” I told him, taking the tray of coffee from his hands and leading him in. He’d kicked his shoes off at the welcome mat, glancing around the interior in an attempt to pick out the differences. The lights cast a warm glow over the room, and my decor had gotten a little eccentric in stark opposition to the millennial grey of his London residence. He was judging — not harshly, but judging nonetheless.

“This place changed,” he said instead, trying to shrug off my compliment as he came over to set the bag of pastries down on the coffee table. He was still awful at accepting those. “I hope I didn’t wake you, by the way.”

“You know me,” I shrugged, placing the coffees down. “I barely sleep.”

“Yeah, and I worry,” he laughed lightly, betraying his concern. “The only thing standing between you and greatness might be a cardiac event.”

“Ouch,” I winced, plopping down onto the couch. Jamie fell into the cushions beside me, still smiling as he peered closer at the stack of books on the table. His knee was gently digging into my thigh as he grabbed the worn copy of The Bell Jar from the top.

“Oh, Plath?” He raised his brows, glancing sharply at me. “Maybe I should have checked in sooner.”

“Shut up,” I laughed defensively, swatting at his arm. “I’ve had that for years.”

“On your coffee table, no less.” Jamie snorted, flipping through the pages. “This is the first impression you leave on your guests?” I was suddenly embarrassed to have annotated it, that he could easily find which sections had me reeling, that he could easily pick out my problems laid bare in a stranger’s writings and realize that I’m still not truly well enough for this. 

I snatched the book from his hands, heart racing. “Enough about me. What’s with you? Why’d you come?”

Jamie pressed a hand to his chest. “I can’t visit an old friend?” 

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m passing through.” He relented. “And … I missed you.”

There it was again. That longing, a grotesque sensation. I wondered what he’d say if I smacked him over the head with Plath, if I started screaming and yelling at him to GETOUTGETOUTGETOUT. If he would really leave me then, if I could scare him off in some way, or if he would hold firm and tell me I’m not going anywhere so knock it off.

“How’s work?” I asked instead, deflecting.

Jamie let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. “It’s good. Steady. I’m… happy.”

I met his eyes, recognizing a measure of honesty in his words. “That’s… that’s really good, Jamie.”

“What about you?” He pressed. “Are you happy? How’s academia treating you?”

I tried to make a similar noise, but it came out a lot sadder. “I’m… managing, I think. It’s stressful. And to be honest, I’m not sure if I like it at all. But I’ve gotten this far, so it’d be a waste to give up now.”

Jamie held the silence for a moment, digging for the right response. “I don’t think that’s entirely true.”

“Mm?”

He propped his elbow over the back of the sofa, leaning against his hand. He was so beautiful. Effortlessly. I wanted to touch his face, to feel the divots against my fingertips that prove he’d laughed, he’d cried, he’d smiled. “On giving up. If it’s not serving you, and you dislike it, I don’t think it’s wasteful to switch gears. It might actually be more wasteful to stick with it.” 

“That’s easy for you to say.”

“How so?”

“You’ve always known what you wanted to do.”

“That doesn’t negate my point.”

“Yes, it does.” I insisted, focusing my gaze on his chin. “You know what you want and you’ve always known and you’re doing it. You’ve been doing it since before we met.” It’s why you left, it’s why you never stay, it’s why you’re always runningrunningrunning to chase the next big thing. It’s why I’m always an afterthought, it’s why we don’t work, it’s why we might never work.

“Still doesn’t negate my point.”

“You don’t get it.”

“So explain to me.” Jamie pressed.

I tried to steady my breathing, but I could feel myself getting agitated. “If I suffer for a little bit longer, I’ll have something to show for it— something real. But if I give up now… I’ll have nothing. Nothing but wasted time. And that indecision, those halfway attempts… they add up. And I can’t afford that. I can’t, Jamie. I’m running out of time. I’m gonna run out of time.”

Jamie met my eyes, and there was a tenderness there that made me feel like jello. I swallowed thickly, a golf ball trapped in my oesophagus. “That’s… That’s not true, love. You’re so young. You have so much time. Why choose that… misery?”

I hated him at that moment. I despised him. Because only he could come into my life whenever he felt like, delicately balancing a tray of coffee and pastries, and demand that I bear my soul to him. To command so much honesty out of me even though pulling teeth might be simpler. “Because I don’t want to be left empty handed.” And that’s when he finally understood, I realized, watching him shift nervously and blink rapidly. 

“You think you’re under the fig tree.” He said, careful.

I snorted, tossing the book into his lap. “Everyone is.”

“No, but you really think you’re starving under that tree.” Jamie pushed back, thumbing the curling edges of the paperback. 

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“You know…” He lets out another laugh, his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “Right after she goes on that whole rant, she gets some food and decides she was being just a little dramatic.”

“I knew you were gonna say that,” I groaned, watching as he gleefully reached for the pastry bags. He lobbed a gorgeous-looking almond croissant my way, looking far too pleased with himself. 

“You always get dramatic when you forget to eat.” Jamie grinned, picking up one of the coffee cups and pressing its warmth into my hands. I noticed the calluses on his hands from the brief contact and remembered how it felt to have those hands tucked under my chin as I tried to sleep. “That’s why I never visit without food.”

“You don’t visit enough.” I mumbled, ignoring the pain in my chest.

“And whose fault is that?”

I stayed silent for a moment, fixing my gaze on the carpet. I should hire a cleaner, I thought vaguely. He definitely thinks I’m a slob. Jamie didn’t rush to fill the gap, instead nursing his own coffee and stretching his legs. Finally, I gathered the courage to ask: “How much time do we have, anyways?”

He exhaled softly, a remorseful sound. “Maybe two, three hours. I’ve got to get to the airport.”

I nodded, knowing this was how it always was. How it might always be. I rarely see him now except in the early morning hours, those in-between moments when the world should be fast asleep, but he’s there in my hallway or I’m on his lawn begging for some time that neither of us should really give. I wondered when— if— we would ever make a conscious effort to see each other in the daylight, to choose to acknowledge each other in front of the Sun instead of just the Moon. I wanted to cry with all my longing, with all my loneliness, but Jamie was here now and I shouldn’t cry over things that haven’t left yet.

“I’m sorry.” He added, sounding genuine. “I wish I could stay.”

“Why do you come then?” I asked instead. If it just hurts in the end. If you can never stay, and I can never stay. If we’re so terrible for each other that not even the sunlight should bear witness to our union.

Then: “Because … I do love you, whether you accept that or not. And because… even though I know I’m just another fig to you, another choice you’re terrified to make, for some strange reason… you let me in. You pick me from the branch and hold me, even for a little bit. And even if you set me down, even if you don’t fully choose me… that’s alright. Because I know it took a lot just to get there.” 

I felt like throwing up, with all my rage and disgust. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t focus. I felt dizzy. “You’re blaming me?”

“No.” He said sharply. “God knows I don’t make it easy, not always.”

“Then what?”

“I’m trying to remind you, I guess. That you’re not starving.” Jamie laughed then, amused by his words. “If that’s the only way you’ll understand it. But it’s bordering psychotic, if you ask me, and I hate metaphors.”

I leaned over to set my coffee on the table, fingers trembling as I loosened my grip. If I held onto it any longer, Jamie would have to take me to urgent care for first-degree burns. As I sat back against the sofa, filterless words pooled out: “Since when did you decide you loved me?”

“Someone wants an ego boost,” Jamie teased, earning a bright laugh from me as he caught my arm and pulled me closer to him. “I won’t give that to you. Not tonight.”

“Even if I cry?” I smiled, meeting his eyes. I felt like bursting into flames, eager and terrified.

“Especially if you cry.” He agreed, absentmindedly tucking hair behind my ear and tracing the curve. “But I can tell you other stories. And you can decide which ones you wanna take and which ones you want to leave.”

I let my head drop onto his shoulder, inhaling his familiar scent and feeling his arm tighten around my frame. I felt intoxicated, I felt jittery, I felt… decisively dangerous. When was the last time someone held me like this? When was the last time Jamie held me like this? “Low stakes.”

“Always,” Jamie promised, pressing his lips to the crown of my head. I thought about when he would unwind our limbs and get to his feet, slip on his shoes and step out that door like he’d done a million times before. When he’d text me a photo before boarding another plane that’ll take him miles from my arms and I’d want to tell him I love you, please don’t leave me here but the words feel like cotton in my mouth and I never cared for love anyways. I should fight this, a part of myself screeched. You don’t need this, you don’t need him.

“There’s this tree,” I whispered, my lips softly dragging against the fabric of his shirt. Jamie’s chest rumbled with his audible joy, all the while I thought of how I’d only end up sobbing on my bathroom floor when this was all over. When I couldn’t breathe him in anymore — when the stories had dried up and he remembered that this was just a fantasy that we indulged for far too long. And there’s this one fig — right above my head, vibrant, delicious, tempting.

“And it’ll drive you mad,” came Jamie’s response, his fingertips resting against my scalp. “It’ll drive you mad, darling.”