Somewhere Else

Chapter 22: Everything I've Ever Let Go (ii)

The regret set in almost immediately after we bade each other goodbye. That night, Aksel walked me back to my apartment, even thought we'd only spoken lightly along the way. The heaviest part of the conversation was over. Aksel has said what he had to say – the ball is in my court now. Everything I still have left to say is in that essay.

So, naturally, I put off sending it out. It sits in the folder on my laptop... and smoulders.

I let it sit for another week.

Aksel and I have started texting again, innocuous daily messages that have forgotten the kiss and the hand-holding.

A picture of the weather forecast set at 11 degrees Celsius. Warm today, he would type as a caption.

In response, I send a picture of the 30-degree-weather in Hamburg from a particularly warm summer day earlier in the year. THIS is warm – and a cheeky emoji.

He sends back a row of cry-laughing emojis. We're laughing at our differences now.

But he doesn't ask about the essay, doesn't even hint at it.

It would be so easy to pretend to forget. He may not even bring it up again. Or maybe he has forgotten. But there is a small, perverse part of me that wants him to read it. Even if I can't muster up the courage to send it to him.

"It's hard," Priscilla commiserates, when I tell her about my dilemma over lunch. It's just the two of us today, having lunch at her apartment before heading to class. It's a reminder of the days when we were living together, and something I look forward to every fortnight.

It's also the only time I feel safe enough to talk about Aksel. Sure – the others are my friends, too, but Zuzi makes too big a deal out of everything. It makes me shy away from telling her my true feelings. It's different with Priscilla, though. Priscilla sits and listens and doesn't bring it up after.

"It's like he still cares," I muse aloud, "but he doesn't want to do anything about it anymore. When we had dinner, we talked about all this heavy stuff... but never once about that night in Kallio."

"Hm," says Priscilla. "Maybe he's scared."

"Scared of what?" I've never known Aksel to be scared. I'm the one who's terrified of so many things. He's always taken things in his stride in a way that I've often admired.

"Maybe," says Priscilla, in a reaching tone that curls its tendrils around the words, "he's afraid of being rejected."

A long silence. Then I let out a strangled laugh. "Are you kidding?" I ask, tempering my voice so that it doesn't come out as a demand. Don't shoot the messenger, Emi. Priscilla is wrong, but she's trying to help. It's just a suggestion. "He was the one who rejected me."

Priscilla smiles, an expression born less out of mirth and more out of understanding. "Yeah," she says, "he did. But – it's like he said at your dinner that night – it looks like he felt rejected by you, too. Right?"

I feel my lips twist.

"Right," Priscilla answer in my stead. She raises her eyebrows, waiting. I huff.

"Fine," I say, the words creaking as if pried out of me. "It went both ways." The words I've once said to Aksel are coming back to haunt me – it takes two hands to clap.

"There you go," Priscilla says. "Wasn't so hard to admit, was it?"

I almost growl at her. "Whose side are you on?"

"Always yours," she declares, then cocks her head. "But that doesn't mean I can't be the voice of reason when I have to."

"Fine." I laugh despite my grumpiness. "Voice of reason, huh? How about calling yourself my fairy godmother?"