Four Years Too Late

We walked around with an invisible string tied gently around our pinkies. No matter our distance or time apart, we could pick up our phone as revisit our online document, our page where we started a story together when we were ten. Day after day we took turns writing some plot that made no sense, then called one another to read that night’s update together. Glued to the hip--we spent every waking moment typing with our little fingers, avoiding homework and socializing to add more to our escape world.

 Our friendship lasted ten years, and in those ten years we wrote many different stories, but there was one that took hold in the root of both our hearts. One story we decided to settle on, to see it through to the end. This dumb little story followed us out of middle school and into our high school years. 

Ruby, her name was Ruby. Our string spun its web the day we met at age five and grew ever stronger as we turned fourteen together--exactly a month apart. Ruby was determined to be my other half and everyone knew it, we never had a single fight that lasted more than five minutes. Any dispute could be cured with a hearty laugh that made one’s side pulse with pain. 

No one talks about it. Not a single soul will openly talk about the truth between us. The year was 2015 and we were in our Sophomore year. Slowly, she became irritable, as did I throughout our day-to-day life now in separate schools. We both tended to bottle things up and avoid what’s truly bothering us, which ultimately catapulted our downfall. We reluctantly finished our story in haste, it felt hollow. The story shouldn’t have ended as abruptly as it did, but then again, our friendship shouldn’t have either.

We both had shadows and negative experiences that led us to develop very differently. Experiences that degraded us, traumatized us, left us bare in the woods with hundreds of unseen eyes casting their gaze upon our naked forms. We became standoff-ish, crude, hurtful. Our once understanding nature had become devoured by teenage angst and lack of patience for one another as well as any other person who did so much as exhaled near us. Although the same--neither of us knew. We always had an excuse “I’m tired” or “You’re just taking your anger out on me.” 

Suddenly, our passion for story-writing became a thing of the past, a crumpled piece of paper cast into a blazing fire to never be spoken about again. All that was left was silent suffering that neither of us had the urgency or guts to bring forward. 

Until I snapped. 

We screamed over the phone, not understanding at the time it was misguided and mistargeted anger. What we didn’t realize is that we were reflecting on the ending of our story together. Rage and haste, running to the finish line when there’s no prize, nothing we’re running towards but running still.

“Call me when you’re done acting like this.” 

Our string suddenly snapped, whipping me in the face. I never knew such a thing could break. I don’t think they’re supposed to be able to tear or splinter, yet here we are--untethered for good. 

I hung up the phone. Surely it would only last a day at most.

It didn’t.

Years dragged on, I moved on, l got into the college I pined after so terribly. That is until my entire college experience flipped itself on its head. I found my roommates’ side of the room completely barren. I locked myself away. Stopped attending my classes. All I had was my creative writing portfolio. Work I was praised for by my professor but every piece left me feeling empty. Every entry has been done around two in the morning in a smoky room with The Doors playing lowly as to not disturb our quiet hours during finals. 

I decided, on a sunny afternoon as I sat in my room with the sun blaring in on my opened sketchbook that I would transfer. I planned to move back home with each stroke of blue paint I smeared along the surface of the pages in my book. Perhaps that would cure it all if I went back home.

Suddenly, a wall I never realized I had built crumbled without warning. The good and the bad crashed in, smothering my eyes with memories, conversations, shared drinks, and fluttering words from a screen. In that particular moment--I remembered. I remembered the story I shared with Ruby. Had she read the story since we last spoke? Does she miss me? Could we ever talk again? 

It’s been four years and for the first time, I logged into our account, accessing our old completed story. I sat in my dorm, huddled under my blanket until I read it completely through. The end, just as before, still bitter and empty, but an ending nonetheless. 

I clicked out of our document, leaving my screen on my email page. Just as I was about to click off--I saw it. The tiny green chat box was lit up with a notification from three months ago. 

There’s no way. Would she remember me? Would she want to remember anything at all?

I wavered my hand over my keyboard. My chest swelled with anxiety and anticipation as I tried to blink back tears to no avail. 

Just click it. Just click it.

It was from Ruby. In a way, I was relieved. Shocked and confused, angry but also happy--but why would she message me after all this time.

“I’m not sure if you use this email anymore, but I guess it’s worth a shot messaging. It’s been a long time. I didn’t expect that. Who am I kidding, you’ll never see this. But, I just want to say that I miss you.”

I couldn’t contain myself. I should call her or text her--do I have her number? Did she block me? 

I responded to the message with my number, and now we wait. 

I packed my room as the year ended with a nasty cold roughing up my system. My writing portfolio was the last thing I tossed in my bag. There were some alright works in there, perhaps I’ll revisit it someday to polish and put more heart and meaning into each line. For now, they lay empty shells with a whisper of meaningful content. 

A week into being home, I received a call from an unknown number. Before I knew it, Ruby and I were standing on opposite sides of my kitchen. I suppose I never pondered the thought of how different we’d become. Her hair had been completely chopped off with punk style, her beaten confidence showing every time she shifted against my wall, holding the plastic cup of wine I had poured for her. 

“How have you been?” My voice came across shakier than I would have preferred, not that I think she cared. 

“I’m not sure, okay I guess. I go by a different name, it’s a long story I don’t want to get into.” She gazed down to her wine, watching the liquid swirl against its plastic walls. “I have a girlfriend now.”

“That’s great,” I sputtered out, a tinge of jealousy hitting my heart. “I have a long-distance relationship with some guy, it’s not working out though.” I took a moment, feeling my back against the kitchen sink. “Do you write at all?”

“No,” she said sharply, chugging the rest of her drink and tossing the cup in the can beside her. “And you?”

I rubbed my arm, pushing the goosebumps away. “I think I want it to be my career if I can.”

 No matter how hard I focussed or unfocused my eyes, I couldn’t see it. Our string had truly been cut. I thought our little meeting would re-spark our friendship, that we could pick up where we left off but that’s just not how it played out. I guess some endings are just endings, for closure and nothing else. Some stories are simply a novel or stand-alone, not a series. 

  Our story isn’t a series. 

“My mom will be home soon if you want to stay for dinner. I think she’d like to see you.” I could feel myself grasping onto a dead friendship, wanting so desperately to revive it. Truly, it ended stupidly. A miscommunication on both our parts. We burnt each other out for all the wrong reasons. 

Ruby, with an unknown new name, grabbed her house keys off the counter. “I’m sure she would but I really should get going. You look good.”

“You too,” I blurted out a little too hastily, hoping we’d meet up again soon and maybe hang out like we used to, but that empty hope only lasted a few months. She slowly stopped answering my texts and calls altogether and I stopped reaching out. It made me feel so incredibly stupid.  

I was looking for the Ruby I had right before the end of 2015. That’s where I wanted to pick up, but the string has been cut and slithered away. It can’t be tied together as others can, our story was done and I need to get it through my thick skull. 

We got our closure, something most people don’t get. It was clumsy and awkward but very telling of where the two of us are in our lives. In some way, that misunderstanding back in high school led us to where we are--wherever that is, and perhaps it needed to happen. Perhaps some ties need to be cut. I can still close my eyes and see our old string, tie in a simple knot as we typed away on that first jumbled mess of a story, but it’s ours and ours only. 

Only now can I officially say it’s completed with no sequels.