Twenty-Nine.
I reached up to the cupboard to get out two glasses for water. I'd changed into something more comfortable, namely tracksuit pants and a tank top. We made an odd pair, what with you still sitting there in all black- while your hair was slightly tousled; the rest of you remained completely intact. How you did it was completely beyond me.
I sat on the counter next to you, as we silently sipped our drinks.
"This place isn't too shabby."
"It goes alright."
Really, the longer I spent in it, the more I hated it. But at the same time, the longer I spent in it, the less I cared. It became more meaningless and less homely by the day, to the point where it was really just some rooms for me to cook, eat, sleep and waste time in. And pay for that, of course. I began to feel guilty for the lack of conversation, when I knew that there were a million unanswered questions in your mind, which you simply didn't dare to ask.
So I told you about where I worked now, and about Megan and the others. I told you about the break up with Benn, and surprised myself at how easily I managed to talk about it, and how calmly. Factually, almost. I was amazed at how much I'd managed to emotionally distance myself from it all. It was like telling stories of someone else's life, rather than my own. I think you noticed, because what seemed like intent listening at first turned to listening with a hint of question in your eyes. But they were different questions now. Deeper questions. Harder questions. Questions I couldn't answer with my head, like I was answering them for someone else. Questions I needed to feel the answers to. Questions I knew now I wouldn't like.
"What's in the envelope?" Your gaze wandered towards the small dining table.
"I don't know."
"Come on, tell me." You nudged me gently.
"I actually don't know. I haven't opened it."
"Why not?"
Instead of answering, I jumped off the counter, picked up the envelope and went into my bedroom. I tossed the envelope into the drawer in the nightstand beside the bed. I sat on the floor next to my bed, using the frame as a back rest, and stared outside the window. You joined me, sitting down far too close to me, yet somehow still too far away.
"You need to go."
"What?"
I drew a sharp breath, and bit my lip.
"You need to...go." The words reluctantly crept off my tongue.
And for the first time since we'd known each other, the silence hurt. It cut through me like a knife, and with such ease because I didn't even fight it. Maybe I wasn't strong enough, or maybe I just wasn't game enough- who knows.
"Why?"
"Because you take me so high it hurts to fall. Because you're more than I can handle. Because you defy everything I try to do, without even really trying. I'm doing what I'm doing for a reason, you know. And I know you don't mean to, but you don't let me move on with my life."
"Wrong. I don't let you forget."
"But maybe I want to forget. Maybe I need to forget."
"Maybe you need to deal with things, instead of just pushing them into the back corner of your mind."
"I don't even want them in the back corner."
"But they're always going to be there, Bec. People don't just forget. We forget trivial things, like what the shop assistant looked like, or how much food we've consumed, or whether or not it's our great-auntie's best friend's sister's birthday. But we don't forget the things you're trying to forget."
