Out of Love

KATH:

The walls are melting. Again.  

I imagined this scene over and over again. Countless times. It's always when my hands find themselves gripping my beloved amber-toned violin that I envision this scene.

 I strum the four strings stretched taut on my violin, the melodies comforting my ears. Ears that were worn down from the hours of screaming from a few days ago. 

  I'm sitting at the interrogation table in a white-walled prison, the walls melting into puddles as the police question me. My hands are tied behind my back, stiff in a pair of steel handcuffs. The handcuffs bite into the skin above my wrist, piercing to the point that I don't even feel any distinct pain. Just numbness. And the police? They're not actually police—they're the two people that I thought I loved the most. The only two people that I thought who would have my back when all went to hell on this messed up piece of floating cosmic dust large enough to somehow sustain a population of 7 billion vessels of ignorance. And somehow, one of them is repeating the same question over and over again. And I can't hear it. 

  Travis's room was a walk-in prison—like a walk-in clinic. A few days ago (or was it? I can't even remember at this point. I've lost track of the days), I headed up to Travis's apartment, thinking that I'd surprise him with his favorite Thai noodles from Nana Thai Eatery and a few beers. It was our 3rd anniversary.  

 That morning, I called him to ask him to confirm our dinner reservations. I was already decked out in the outfit that I picked out the night before—a white blouse and black dress pants. He hated it when I wore anything remotely scandalous, so I wore the outfit he liked me the most in. Something professional. Chic. Sleek. But, he told me he was too wrapped up on his Python project due the next day to even set foot out of his apartment. 

 "I'm so sorry, Kath. I'll make it up to you, babe. I promise. Once I get this project done, we'll go out to Ippolitos, yeah? You love their alfredo pasta. It'll taste twice as good when we celebrate after this is all over," he promised, his words sounding slurred and rushed. 

 "That's fine," I replied, my voice clipped. Annoyance prickled my sides. Why didn't he finish his project earlier? He knew how much I cared about those reservations. Hell, I even had my whole outfit planned out, and I've been reminding him. For months. 

"I'm sorry, babe. You know how it is with work, don't you?" His tone was dripping with sugar. Saccharine.

  "Of course," I said, sighing gently. Of course. It couldn't be helped. Smart Travis was always busy with work. Good Travis was always putting his career first. Perfect Travis loved Python and his office job. That was okay, wasn't it? It's like this with all relationships. Work comes first. No questions asked.

 Like the dumbass I was, I thought that I'd take a celebratory dinner to him. No need to go out and to dress up, right? No need to do anything that I wanted to do. No—I brought him dinner and beer and my MacBook to accompany him while he worked on his Python project. 

 Only when I slid the spare key he gave me two years ago into his lock did I finally hear the voices. I jammed the key into the lock, twisting it to the right until I heard the faint click and the door finally gave way. 

From the moment I stepped inside, something was off. Bottles of beer and a half-broken glass of champagne was littered across the floor. I stepped cautiously over half-empty packets of cigarettes and crushed chocolate-covered strawberries. They looked like mangled hearts.

The voices drifted towards me. They were in the bedroom. Whoever they were. 

 A roaring sound filled my ears. But I didn't feel anything—no, I was absolutely calm. Eerily calm. 

 I opened the door. 

Travis and Amber, my best friend, laid in bed, his arm slung around her as she talked dramatically, her eyes bright and animated while her hands were up in the air as if she was trying to paint a picture with her hands. And the way he looked at her—his blue eyes crinkling with admiration, brown hair mussed as if someone ran their hands through it—it was the way he used to look at me. 

That's when whatever was left of my heart shattered. 

~ 

TRAVIS: 

 Today was Kath and I's third anniversary.

The date has been marked on my calendar for ages. I even have it in my Reminders app. When we first started dating, I put in over 30 anniversaries into my phone calendar. That's how confident I was that we would get married and live happily ever forever. Ah—to be young and naive again. 

 I put together chocolate covered strawberries for her. Not the cheap kind you find at Publix or Kroger. Those frozen strawberries dipped in chocolate candy melts are truthfully a monstrosity.

No, I ordered the best chocolate I could find and tried a dozen of different strawberries for the sweetest, most delicious strawberry that I knew Kath would love.

 Then I stayed up all night, gingerly washing, cutting, and dipping the strawberries in chocolate. Afterwards, I arranged them to spell "I LOVE YOU KATH" and a ridiculous smiley face. I stood back, admiring my handiwork. I had it all planned out— it was going to be a surprise. I would talk her out of going to the ridiculously high-class restaurant on the top of the tower that neither of us really liked.

But that didn't happen because by the time she called, I had just remembered about my Python project, and I didn't have the heart to fight with her over a dumb restaurant. Lying was always an easier way. 

  But somehow, I found myself cracking open a beer. Then another. And another. Until I was completely and utterly drunk.  

  At first, Kath was the perfect girlfriend. She was a natural-born violin prodigy, her fingers arching across the strings, poised to coax out the most beautiful melodies from the instrument. She worked almost as hard as I did, spending hours at end honing her talent. Her black hair was always let down in loose curls, even when she was practicing violin. She was always put together, her nails perfectly manicured, and her eyeliner clean and precise. Impeccable.

 She was mesmerizing. 

 And I loved every part of her. I loved it every time she dragged me to a Musicians Collective Gala, her sparkly gowns even paling in comparison to her glowing aura that she radiated. Everywhere she went, people gravitated towards her. She was perfect. Too perfect. I found heart sticky-notes on top of my lunchboxes, new ties and suits that she would deliver spontaneously as "gifts", silver Daniel Wellington watches, and daily texts at exactly 7:30AM—delivered without fail to wish me a good morning. 

But at some point in the past three years, I was tired. Tired of the constant nagging, the coddling. I would be knee-deep in a project, frustrated and tired. The compiler wouldn't run, and I'd be out of options. What good was I? I was a 22-year old graduate working at my first company on the verge of losing my job if I didn't get it together. My life revolved around making a place for myself at my company. I didn't have time for the luxurious life that Kath lived and paraded around on her Instagram. No, I didn't have that kind of luxury.

Nothing was ever handed to me on a silver platter. Everything I've built in my life up until now was the product of my determination. And now that same determination that landed me at Cornell University and pushed me to study harder, work harder, fight harder, to finally graduate at the top of my class, is now failing me.

My coworkers don't like Kath. They see her constant calls and stop-bys at the office, bringing boxes of her homemade Bento Boxes as a nuisance. And whatever charm Kath had on others, it didn't seem to work on anyone in my company. 

 "How do you ever get anything done with a shallow girl like her hanging at your side?" My boss, Marcus, asked me a few weeks ago. "I'd honestly never be able to focus. Props to you, though. It's impressive how you put up with her. " 

I managed a meek reply, muttering something unintelligible. What good was there in outright disagreeing with Marcus, who I was already tip-toeing the line with? He could fire me at any moment. No reasons, no questions asked. Still, I opened my mouth to at least retort something back—nobody was going to get away with insulting Kath behind her back. 

 But Marcus beat me to it. "And," he added, a smug smile curling up on his lips, "I get that she's trying to be the perfect girlfriend by bringing you those Japanese lunches, but damn—they stink up the whole fridge. At this rate, you're going to scare off every associate in this whole building from adding anything to the fridge at the risk of contamination." He was only half-joking.  

 So I stopped answering every call. Let my coworkers drag me to their dinner parties with their chic, sleek girlfriends who were running Fortune 500 companies and CEO's of the next revolutionary company.

 And at some point, I lost Kath. I lost her a long time ago. She began only giving me half of her, the other half of Kath that I saw—gone. Gone were the late night adventures and silly smiles and heartfelt letters. Instead, she gave me polished, practiced smiles that she wore in front of others. She grew distant—she stopped seeing me for me . She stopped calling me when she got home safely, leaving me waiting for hours on end.

 Her instagram was perfect. Overly perfect. Fake to the point that I felt sick inside looking at the overly edited reel of photos she displayed all over her social media for the internet to pick apart. 

 "Night out with the love of my life!" She wrote the caption with ease as she posted a picture of us at her favorite restaurant, the Sun Dial. We had been fighting for hours before we reluctantly went out to eat, not wanting to waste the reservation that took months to book beforehand. 

 The second we stepped into the restaurant, Kath become The Kath. The Kath was the fake, porcelain version of the girl I fell in love with. This Kath—The Kath— was a fake. She showed no emotions, as if she packed them neatly away into a compartment. Her dress was too fitting, and every curl on her head was the perfect shape. It was smothering. 

I didn't expect Kath that night. Anniversary or not, I truthfully did have my Python project. And I wasn't quite sure I wanted to see The Kath that day. 

So when Amber called me and showed up unexpectedly in front of my apartment, it only took her a few tries before somehow I wound up in bed. What can I say? Add some beer to your loneliness, and let's see what you'd do too.

 Maybe part of me hoped that Kath would somehow stumble in and find me with Amber. Maybe then she would finally show me her real emotions. How she really felt instead of these filtered, forced glimpses that she gave me. 

But where do you draw the line? How much will I have to sacrifice to get where I need to be? 

~ 

Amber: 

Dear Travis, 

I am writing you this letter because I will never ever give you this. Remember when I was your one-night-stand on the day of you and Kath's 3 year anniversary? 

Let me start by telling you a little something. I am always the second choice. Second to everything that Kath does. The second best violinist, the second best person, the second girl. I'm the supporting character. In high school, I was always known as "Kath's best friend" instead of Amber. In college, I was just always "Kath's roommate" instead of Amber. And now, even when we perform at concerts, I am always just the "second best player". So the one thing I desperately wanted was to finally have a taste of being the first choice. 

It tasted sour. I tasted it as soon as Kath discovered us wrapped around each other. I really was having fun back then. I was in the middle of showing you how I paint with my hands without really painting—something that I still can't show anyone else. Not even Kath, even though she was technically my best friend for seven years. She just wouldn't have gotten it. 

I saw the way you looked at her. The way the two of you seemed to share something so intimate. So raw. It was love, but it wasn't love. Does that make sense? It was two people who loved each other, two people who hurt each other, two people who still wanted each other but they weren't willing to admit it or even admit that there was something else going on. 

Two people in denial. 

Two people faking it. 

That's what I thought at first. I remember Kath's face. But it was her eyes—they were so focused on you, her hazel eyes filling with tears, and as they slid down her face, coming down like pouring rain, I finally saw yours. 

They were full of longing. Wistfulness. There was raw feeling to those eyes. Eyes that you would never have for me, the second choice girl, isn't that right? 

I remember watching the fight between the two of you.

 "What the hell is wrong with you?" Kath had sputtered between tears. Her perfect curled hair was starting to frizz up, her once-precise eyeliner now blurring. Not so perfect anymore, I guess.

 "I should be asking you that," You shifted out of bed. You're shirtless, but your jeans are on at the very least. 

  "It's our anniversary, you dumbass. You lied to me. You're in bed with my best fucking friend." She's shouting now, the words spilling out of her.

 "That's what you've been doing to me for the past few years. Lying to me through your weird antics. You stopped seeing me. You only gave me half of you, and you stowed the other half of you away. Where did you go, Kath?" Your breath hitches, and in that moment, I knew that you would always love her. No matter what happened.

 "I'm still here," she screams. "I've always been. You're the one who has only given me half. I see you—I see all of you. But you can't do that for me because you're too self-absorbed and interested in becoming the perfect employee at your dumb company." 

 He runs his hands through his hair. For someone who was drinking and chucking chocolate covered strawberries at the wall an hour before, you were so clearheaded in the moment. 

Watching the two of you was like watching two volcanoes suddenly erupt from years of buildup. Of stifling. Years of waiting for the feelings both of you forced down to finally explode—and when they finally did, all hell broke loose. 

I don't know how long the fight lasted—but all I do know is that I was a stranger—an outsider looking in. It was like I wasn't even there. Invisible. Poof. The second choice again.  

Once a second choice, always a second choice, right? 

Anyways, hope you two manage to get it together. I'm out of here. 

Never Yours Truly, 

Amber

~

KATH:

I was pissed. Every emotion that I've fought to smother and tamper down these past few months finally erupted. 

  We had been screaming for so long. Too long. Amber looks ashen, retreating back to the tiny corner of the bed. I didn't care. 

My only focus is on Travis. He was the one who had a commitment to me. After we scream it out, we're both silent for a few moments, if only to catch our breaths. Finally, he looks at me, tears running down his face. His voice is hoarse when he speaks. 

"When did you fall out of love?" he asks. "You've been leaving me. You're never present anymore." 

 "When did I fall out of love?" I repeat. Then I laughed, but there was no amusement in there.  

Well, ladies and gentlemen, this is the ultimate question, isn't it?

 When did I fall out of love? I fell out of love when he started paying more attention to playing video games than me. I fell out of love when he shouted at me for wearing my strappy red dress to a birthday party with my best friend, Amber. I fell out of love when he never made time for me–canceling our late night adventures to hangout with his coworkers while I sat alone in a crowded pub, waiting for him to join me for drinks. I fell out of love when I found the pre-cooked bulgolgi Bento Boxes that I made for him in the trashcan, hidden behind the other bags of trash that he never took out.

 I fell out of love when he stopped paying attention to the little things. When he stopped texting me to see if I made it home safely after drinking out late, when he snapped my violin strings in half when he was locked in a drunken rage over a project gone wrong at his company. Or when he started looking at his phone more than me when we went out to lunch at Zoe's Kitchen. Or when he started joining his coworkers, laughing with them instead of at them when they sneered at me. And finally, when he showed up to my first violin concert with the taste of sour whiskey on his breath, murmuring a half-assed apology for why he wasn't here for the concert that I practiced non-stop for months. 

But instead, I don't say any of this. I just turn my heel and walk out. 

I snap back to the present. My hand grips my violin tightly. I bring the bow to the violin strings and begin playing.

The walls stop melting.