Dear R — Scratched Out

The sound of the pen against paper scratched against a cavity in my chest that I couldn’t brush off any longer.

To the man that I

I drew in a deep breath. Touched the inked tip to the straight line.

‘Dear R’.

I struck that out too.

The corners of my lips wobbled.

I couldn't even write his name.

I'd already wasted three lines with ugly mistakes and messy cross-outs.

It was debilitating, searching for the right words.

Humbling, because I had to stop and sit with my grief. A grief I’d run away from for so long it spent two years disguised beneath my anger until I’d forced myself to sit down with red-rimmed eyes, and ragged snotty breaths. Triggered by a wandering mind and memories that had once set me alight with love.

I hate you.

The letters were stark against horizontal lines, carved by a tough hand.

The strike through them was just as firm. The rewrite almost ripped through— until I did tear the paper by scribbling angry lines with a muffled shriek.

My ripped letter full of false starts. Just like him.

For a moment there was nothing but me and the paper. And my huffed breaths. And the ticking black clock, mounted on the wall.

“Did you know I got my strength from you?” I said. As if he were a ghost that could hear me. I dropped my head towards a space in the small, blue bedroom that was large enough to fit his towering height. The space he'd occupy, sitting on my double bed. I imagined the way he might look at me, hearing those words. The way his brown eyes might narrow in thought.

“What do you mean?” He’d say.

The more I pretended, the more vivid his image became. I could see the curve of his broad shoulders, each detailed marking of ink on his skin. The muscular form he took care of, that had only ever made me feel safe at night. When I closed my eyes, I thought I could smell him. Or capture a memory of the essence of the scent.

“I got my strength from you,” I whispered from my soul, because those words alone were enough. And when I opened my eyes, I could imagine the understanding on his face. “And more, that I’ve never told you about. And all those times you'd ask, ‘why are you so angry?’ ‘what’s wrong with you?’ And this, and the third?” My voice thinned into something breathless. “It’s because I’m tired of loving someone I can't have. You only promise pain.”

“Try.” He said, thinning his eyes with a mirrored emotion. “We could go back to how it was.”

I smiled humourlessly.

How it was…

I pictured the shadow of his silhouette under the heavy rain, sauntering in front of the headlights of his car like something out of a movie. That night at that stupid diner. The version of him that nestled against my stomach as I combed my fingers through his hair. The best friend that made me laugh and cherished my body in the way I needed, who listened to me lament of my hardships. The whispered dreams. The shared spoon when I never share.

The baby talk.

My throat squeezed.

The baby talk.

“There’s no point. I’m starting to forget you.” I said.

He scoffed. “You know damn well that’s a lie.”

“I am.” I flinched at the look in his eyes. Turned away. “But I remember your kindness.” I thinned my lips as beads of wetness lined my waterline. Folded my arms against the grey shirt I could never seem to throw away.

“Then you remember me.”

“I don't.”

— “Amor.” He said like a calling home. I fell for it like a caught fish. His ghost had leaned forward. Elbows on his knees and clasped his palms together with a softness in his eyes. I felt a rise in my chest that made me want to bare my teeth and snap.

I threw my head back and glared at the ceiling. Picked at my thumbs against a ticking knee.

“That makes you feel something when it comes from me.” He said.

“It doesn't.”

“And that's how I know, you're not forgetting about me. You might never.”

“And is that supposed to be a good thing?” I snapped. “There is only pain here, is that what you want for me? — I want to move on.”

Because the memories weren't all good.

There were one too many nights where I drowned my pillow in tears at his inconsideration. Too many arguments that showed a character I didn't recognise, and my self-esteem paid for it. I’d ignored the signs displayed by my body when the trauma was making me sick.

At the expense of my own health, I’d lifted the moon and picked the placement of the stars so he would see his face in the constellations. Until he set it all ablaze and relit the flames every time I doused them. I could no longer sit there and hope for a different outcome when the results were always the same. No amount of communication, or pleading, or demonstration would fix this. It wasn't in my power to change someone.

“You can’t blame it all on me.” He said. “This is all I’ve ever known.”

“But it was hurting me.”

“I am my own man.” He voiced low, under his breath. “Am I not supposed to live?”

“I’m not trying to trap you!”

“Then just relax!”

There.

Evidence of the arson to my divine effort, in three simple words.

But as much as it hurt, it felt like listening to an autopsy. Now I was a mortician, stitching the wounds of this cold corpse with a rigid clarity that allowed me to step back and listen to him anew.

Because he wasn't all wrong.

We were the bird and the fish that met in the space between the current and the skies, and we couldn't stay there.

It wasn't healthy to hold onto this hatred. My urges to strike back at perceived wrongs from a vindictive place of hurting, they weren't deserving. Not when we were just different. Connected by a chance of fate. The universe's alignment.

He was from a world that wasn’t as soft as mine. And though mine was barbed it pricked in a different way. His normal wasn’t mine. My norm was his cage and it fed misunderstandings that festered into resentment. And when I opened my eyes to the ghost that stared at me, perched on the edge of my bed, the muscles around his eyes had hardened with that truth. And still…

“What do you want?” He said, picking at my internal scabs.

I want this to work anyway. I want us to talk and figure it out. I want you to call me. But instead, “Nothing.” I said.

He stared. And stared. And stared like a stranger.

And I came to terms with the fact that perhaps, that was what he was.

That spot of colour I held onto went grey, and the world became black and white.

He never loved me.

It was time to let go.

At that moment, my phone pinged.

A harsh sound that vibrated against my desk.

Jarred, I snatched the device and faced the screen.

A message from the name I couldn't say.

‘Hi.’

Another ping.

‘How’ve you been?’

His ghost had disappeared from my room and been made flesh. The phone trembled in my hand.

Despite my better judgement, I poised my thumbs to type back.