I was fine

**character-driven narrative**

I’m in a state where I can’t remember the last time I cleaned my teeth. Don’t get me wrong, they don’t smell. But I’ve lost track of time. If I had access to certain substances, I’d be high all day, even though thoughts of her consume me whenever I encounter something even slightly subversive.

All stories share a common thread: they explore human flaws. From troubled souls drowning in alcohol, which forms the backbone of most tales, to sweet romantic nonsense. I’m exhausted by these narratives. Why must every story have a meaning or action points? This isn’t a story—it’s a memory etched in my mind. A photography of still internal life, but not an artistic description. No, it’s a feeling, to be precise. If you lacked the courage to write it, then leave it to me. I won’t give you a name. I wish I could write better, capture her essence. Maybe then she’d listen. She’s seen others try it, but it left her cold. We never promised each other anything.

When my mind confronts the outside world without her, it forms the most awkward sentences. Isolation isn’t good for me. I thought I was fine alone, that I didn’t need people. I want to lie in the dirt in the garden, or plunge my hands into a flower pot and rip the plant from its natural habitat. I’ve already burned a pile of papers from the time I knew her.

I am moving my laptop to the garden, so I can watch my neighbor doing his daily things. It’s a poor substitute for watching you. You like to be watched, you glow in sight. Sometimes, I have an urge to smash his head out of boredom on his pristine concrete driveway just because he mows the lawn on Saturday mornings. Or to push a person without human down the stairs. It’s okay to cry. In front of mirrors, palms, Asian clothes stores, dark bathrooms, carp pierced with a ham, toothbrushes, gentle rain, and most importantly, a library card. What does all this have to do with you? Guilt.

I try in vain to approach her. I am the reason for the silence. Knowing what I did to her, it’s no surprise. She loved me.I remember the night she told me. Why the hell didn´t I say mee too, or something, actually anything.

She would find it incomprehensible—how can I be this obsessed? You think anarchy, but everything about you isan organized chaos. Little furniture cards to learn names in different languages, a hatred for every living thing in summer hinting she’s a vampire, my absence.

I can't put it off any longer. The boxes in the corner are like Russian roulette. You don’t know which holds the knife. A literal knife that you mocked me for bringing to the club. The yellow bird clip I stole from you at the beginning—You had your hair tied back, and I playfully snatched it, promising to give it back for a smile. You laughed, and that sound, so rare and genuine, echoed in my mind for days. That was the first time I felt a spark of something deeper.The drawing of your face, a good one. I could have been an artist, but you envisioned a better future for me. Yet, you kept the drawing under your phone case. I wish you had slapped my face back then, beat me to the ground in the park, I’d lick pigeon shit off the pavement. So, back to the box—delightful smell of long unwashed hair, of the dead rose from him, the first and last one he gave me. In hindsight, I see what you hated about him, but he’s not the focus here, finally. Another interesting find is the thick strand of blonde, virgin hair. It always creeped her out when I asked to smell her hair.

Finally, the photos. One in particular catches my eye. When we first met by the lake, a toxic sewer, but we didn’t need more. You came closer, no small talk, only big stuff. A secret? You came because you pitied me, that’s the truth. You felt a social obligation, perhaps. The typical photo of summer, shows us in the water, from afar, blurred enough. You wouldn’t have continued talking to me if I wasn’t worthy. We were us. That's a power of a picture, makes me want to just hug you and stay there, where I was fine.

The next photo is just a printed screenshot of our first text conversation about nothing, mocking an old witch and her dusty, dry cave. It makes me wonder what we talked about all the time, but you always mock me of that one time I asked you during lunch if you’d eat kangaroo. I had no idea I was your project of socializing, bringing into the market. "I thought you’d be so beautiful if you didn’t dress like you did." I did this to myself because: "I’ve become so rude, I talk back, just your fault," but not bitterly, rather as a badge of honor. And it was, except she caught my local accent, which for her might be catastrophic because of her future career as a person who speaks loud, I don´t want to specify that. I wonder if you ever think about those moments, too, or if they’ve faded into the background of your new life.

"People who talk about other people are simple(stupid), about event is a little better, about a concepts are the advancednced ones, here your´s collective field of informations go" she said after reading a stupid Instagram post following a discussion about death´s outcome. This was a fragile theme as she was in mourning, but past the stage of wearing black all the time. That was a part of her I didn’t understand. No, I got it, but it was something hers that didn’t need to be understood.

The last photo, the one that hurts the most, is from the last day I saw her in person. Graduation day, the end of an era. Everyone around was happy it was over, but not me, crying in my fanciest dress. A random photographer came, took it, and left. The two of us, smiling through tears, the crowd going wild behind us. I am extremely tied to her. Like BDSM, it hurts but is also so good. That’s why I can’t stop looking at it. I am going to talk to her. Mind you, manipulation doesn’t move her as she thinks. I found a little blank space, a small crack. I’m no fan of music, unlike her, but I tried a bit of suggestion, mentioned a few songs, and made her love them just by mentioning them. It comforts me that she’s not a stone but a ghost. You can just call them out. I fall again and again. Picture by picture, by stone, by scissors. Not so confusing if you read that again.

Don’t look at me like that, don’t shout, I know you see me. Untouched grass is waiting for you. You will never get rid of me, you hear me? And you know that. But for this week, a picture is enough for me. But wait. Also, don’t walk home alone at night. I am gonna call you tommorow.