Please Don't Be Mad

CW: This story deals with references to terminal illness and death.

“Alright, alright, I promise. I will never, ever, ever, ever go anywhere without telling you, as long as you do the same.”

I made the promise between giggles as you laughed triumphantly, swaying your body back and forth to the rhythm of your own joy, enthusiastically nodding your mutual consent.

The promise started as a joke, but that didn’t mean we stuck to it any less. Any party, any evening seminars, and when we moved in together, any late nights in the office, late nights at the bar with our friends, we were quick to let the other know. I was always so anxious and I remember the absurd relief that almost came over me when you made me promise. But you were always clever like that, subtle in the ways you took care of me. Roundabout in the ways you loved me. But I’m clever too and I always suspected what you were doing. Suspected you made me promise for myself, a promise I would’ve been too shy to ask from you on my own.

Remember how our friends used to ask if we were psychically connected because of it? And we’d always laugh and say yes and, I don’t know about you, but I’d always mean it. I knew you as well as I knew myself, how could we not be? We used to talk all the time and somehow, so much of what I know about you and you about me has never found the tangibility of the verbal form. Even your name is imprinted on the back of my skull. Sometimes, when I’ve had one more puff, one more glass more than I probably needed, I can maybe see my name imprinted on the back of yours. Love is a powerful hallucinogen. 

But love is not easy and, like all growing, living things, it needs to be maintained and cultivated. On the most part, we were pretty good at that. Other times, not so much. The promise we made was unique in that it was not a promise for permission, it was never about letting the other do things, but rather a promise of trust and communication, a dedication to the intimacy of the mundane. In small ways, I think, we broke our promise to each other; we always knew where the other was physically, but for both of us, emotional communication was much more difficult. After all, are we ever really solely in one place when the mind is gallivanting across galaxies of dreams and anxieties, aspirations and fears alike? There’s certainly a compelling case that knowing where your mind was at any given moment was far more important and I imagine that many of the fights we had could have been avoided if we just learned how to apply our promise to so many other things. 

I don’t have many regrets, but I wish we had figured that out sooner. The overarching importance of knowing where your mind was and letting you know where mine was. How many nights did we spend being miserable because our love couldn’t be heard by the other? How many nights did I doubt that you loved me? Very little about you only appeared to be as good as it was. But I’m a skeptic. It drove my philosophy professors crazy and, in both good and bad ways, I know it sometimes drove you crazy too. It must be frustrating to love someone so determined to find proof of the falsity of that love. I promise it was frustrating to find myself poking holes when I didn’t even realize I was, becoming more and more certain maybe I’d never let you love me. I told myself I was being logical, being rational, building a scientific case for a hypothesis that went against everything I otherwise hoped for.

But for each of the “data points” I collected saying you didn’t, I was blatantly ignoring so many others that said you did love me. Admittedly, it makes for bad science. How could I ignore the love you placed on my skin with every gentle forehead kiss, every time your fingertips brushed my hair back into place, the same way I whispered hundreds of “I love you”s when I silently fixed your shirt collar everyday before work.

I mulled over our promise constantly, especially when times were bad. And there were a lot of bad times until we finally learned how to use our promise properly. I remember the night when we finally fixed things, finally the talk among thousands that seemed to break the surface and in the calm we had finally built together, you fell asleep on me. I watched your eyes flutter sleepily until they finally closed and the only thing left that danced with the soft light emanating from your desk was the gentle sound of your breath and I remember thanking the universe, thanking god, thanking every possible divine entity that could have given you the life you needed to be so beautiful. I promised myself then that I would never break that promise to you again; I never wanted to be anything less than transparent before you ever again. It was the first time that I truly understood the intimacy in nakedness. I kept that promise to myself, and to you, until today.

I know there’s no sense in wondering because there is no answer to this question, but I nonetheless wonder which one it was that spelled the end. Which cigarette was the one that made the difference that led to us here? Which microwave dinner? Which strand of DNA in the tangled biological jungle of my genome? Is there a single action or a single small thing that could have stopped the chain of events that led to me being dressed in the funerary blue hue of my hospital gown and your head laid down so heavily on my thigh, the exhaustion seeming to add additional weight to you? I know there isn’t an answer because life is always more gradual than we hope. But the funny thing about dying is that you lose the certainty of time you usually have and in that uncertainty, the prospect of returning to a time before seems maybe possible if I just had enough willpower to do it.

But I’m tired now. I had so much willpower but the willpower seemed so much more worth it when we both had the life left in us to keep fighting. Maybe if my time had become so distorted earlier, I could have changed so much more. But I can’t. And neither can you. And as long as I wilt away, so do you, and honestly, I knew as you walked in, this would be the last night we’d have together. I didn’t have the stomach to tell you, and even if I did, I wouldn’t have; I can’t have peace if you don’t.

I had so many questions before. I have so many questions now. And there’s a part of me that wishes that you were awake and we could sit here together with all my questions and maybe the time will stop just until I have all my answers, but if I have all those questions, we’ll sit here forever, learning and growing together until the sun sets for both of us. But I’m already sitting in the dark, and your sun hasn’t even begun to set, regardless how badly I can tell you want it to.

In a way, the guilt I feel is immobilizing. Trust me, baby, sometimes I dream that if I hold your hand through the night, I’ll be able to do it for the rest of your life. But I know the reality is that I’ll only be able to hold it for the rest of mine. And while it may not be entirely my fault, I could’ve, I should’ve done more to ensure that I would. But here you are. And here I am. For the time being, here we are, but not for much longer.

I can’t help feeling like I betrayed you. Promised you a life without realizing how short it would be. Promised to never go anywhere without telling you, but I’m doing that right now. I even knew I was going to break my promise to you and, even if I couldn’t keep the promise, I wish I could have told you that I was going to break the promise tonight. But I feel so unbelievably selfish that this time, I am thanking the universe, thanking god, thanking every possible divine entity that now, that you don’t need to see me do this. This time, I don’t know where I’m going either. And I’m so sorry I can’t tell you when I find out. I won’t even know if you’ll forgive me. But I hope when I get there, I’ll be lucky enough again to someday find out.