#Husk who is usually the one paying for dates in relationships is SO confused by this treatment | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

yourtamaki · 4 years ago

Text

history doesn’t repeat, it rhymes

sakusa x gn!reader

word count: 4.1k

warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, elements of depersonalization, non-explicit mentions of sex

dedicated to: @onyxoverride (thank you for beta reading) & @saintdabi

you can’t remember the last time you saw your reflection.

it wasn’t deliberate, the way you turned your back to the full length mirror in your closet every morning when you got dressed, how you usually dodged your reflection coming out of the shower like you did just now. at least, not at first. not until you realized how much better you felt now that you didn’t have to come face to face with a stranger everyday. that was the only word to describe whatever lived in the mirror. a stranger. any recognizable part of you had rotted away long ago. all that remained now was an empty husk with dead eyes and a selfish heart. the same selfish heart that set you on this path in the first place.

was it worth it? you wanted to ask your past self. was his love worth what you did to yourself?

the very first night you met sakusa set the tone for the rest of your relationship. you’re still not entirely sure why you accepted your roommate, hinata’s, invitation to his team’s party to celebrate their record win streak. it probably had something to do with the puppy dog eyes he threw you. regardless, you went, wearing an outfit you were losing confidence in by the second and leaning against a wall as far from the drunk crowd as you could get. you never liked parties like this. too many people, too loud. but for your best friend, you were willing to grit your teeth and bare it.

a part of you, larger than you would ever admit, wishes you never looked to your left that day. wishes that you never spotted the curly haired man looking so sullen despite half his face being covered with a mask, that you didn’t notice the way his eyes flickered from his empty red cup to where you knew the kitchen to be, how he wearily eyed the crowd of people that separated him from it.

“i was about to grab a drink. i can bring something back for you if you’d like?” the first thing you ever said to the love of your life was a lie. you were planning on staying tucked in your corner all night, safe from the dancing drunks who had no concept of personal space until hinata was ready to leave. and yet the words were almost ripped out of you the moment your eyes landed on him, a fierce need to help the man flaring up from nowhere. you could only assume he had separated himself from the party for the same reason you had and it pulled on your heartstrings. no one ever noticed when you needed help so why not extend that courtesy to him instead? he blinked at you as though he had to process your offer before he nodded.

“yes, please i’d appreciate it.” his voice was different than you expected it to be. slow and calm despite the way his fist clenched and unclenched. “just water. a closed bottle if you can find it.”

his brows furrowed for a moment when you held out your hand before letting out a quiet ah and handing you his empty cup. it was endearing how he placed it in your hand, balancing it carefully on your palm.

“be right back.” you shot him a smile and started to make your way across the floor, getting pushed and jostled the entire way there. you made quick work of tossing the garbage into the overflowing trash bag and dug out two water bottles from behind a rack of beer cans in the fridge. the trip back was no easier and you breathed a sigh of relief when you were once again in your small private bubble with the man. the discomfort you endured, the skin crawling sensation of all those bodies too close to you was worth the way his eyes lit up when he saw you’d returned.

he accepted the cool bottle with a murmured thanks, pulling his mask down and tucking it under his chin. handsome was your first thought and his name was your second. the two distinct moles on his brow should’ve given it away that you were talking to sakusa kiyoomi. you’d seen enough of hinata’s games, heard enough stories to put a name to the face. he held your stare as you placed him in your mind, taking a sip from the bottle as he did. an urge to say something, anything to keep those eyes on you bubbled up hot and fast and you said the first thing that came to mind.

“my roommate’s your teammate.”

“is he? which one?”

“hinata. shoyo.” you added as though there was another hinata on the msby roster.

“ah. my condolences.” the corner of his lips quirked up when you snorted. “i’ve seen how he leaves a locker room. i don’t want to imagine what his room looks like.”

“it’s not pretty, that’s for sure.” you said, leaning your shoulder against the wall and taking a moment to regard him. “can i ask why you’re here? shoyo told me you don’t like crowds so a party must be hard on you.”

“would you believe me if i said contractual obligations?”

“nope cause i helped shoyo go through his contract and i don’t remember ragers being a part of the deal.” a small burst of pride bloomed in your chest when he laughed, a quick huff from his nose and amused eyes as though he didn’t expect it.

“you got me.” you waited for him to explain and deflated a bit when he remained silent. that is, until you followed where his eyes had wandered. it was easy to spot hinata from across the party. he sat high above the rest of the crowd on bokuto’s shoulders, leaning back occasionally to test bokuto’s reaction time and giggling every time he was caught at the last moment. meian was trying in vain to pull the ginger down while atsumu seemed to be on facetime with someone recording the whole thing, his loud laughter ringing out clearly over the music.

“you’re here for them?” you said just as the realization dawned on you. sakusa twitched, so small you wouldn’t have noticed if you hadn’t been watching him so closely.

“spending time with your teammates promotes better gameplay on the court.”

“i’m sure it does. but wanting to hang out with your friends isn’t a crime.”

“we are hanging out. i’m here, aren’t i? if they wanted to talk to me, they know where to find me.” the bitterness in his tone wasn’t enough to mask the acceptance behind his words, of being resigned to his fate as the forgotten one.

“well, i found you.” he looked over at you, something unreadable swimming behind his eyes before they softened.

“yeah. you did. you know, you’ve talked a lot about shoyo but i don’t know anything about you. i don’t even know your name.” he said. heat raced to your cheeks, flustered that he seemed to be paying as much attention to you that you were to him.

“i didn’t even notice, sorry.” you said before offering your name. he repeated it back, once, twice, rolling it around on his tongue and you watched his mouth, mesmerized by how it curled around a word you’ve heard your whole life until it sounded new again. he spoke your name in a soft, hushed whisper and you wondered if his lips would feel just as soft. half-lidded, his gaze flickered downwards like he was wondering the same thing.

the rest of the night was a blur in your mind. all you could recall was that you chatted with sakusa until the others found you and you drove a passed-out hinata home with a new contact saved to your phone.

the reminiscing left you drained, clutching your phone in your hands, the screen frozen on that same contact as you collapsed into bed and yet you couldn’t stop the rest of the memories from flooding through your mind, the truth you’ve been holding off for too long. you’ve picked at a festering wound that was best left alone. if you didn’t think too hard about it, if you ignored how it grew and ate away at you, it wouldn’t hurt as much. right? but it was too late. you’ve pulled the string and now you’re left to deal with your own unraveling.

you scrolled through your texts for what feels like a lifetime, the entirety of your relationship flashing by and disappearing in an instant until you could scroll no higher. of course you sent the first text. a formal message that didn’t look anything like how you actually text with one too many exclamation points in your desperation to come across friendly.

your fingers moved across the screen and when your mind caught up, your thumb was hovering over the button to delete the entire conversation. you never wanted to see evidence of who you used to be ever again. you didn’t want to be reminded of the person you cut and broke and killed until they fit into sakusa’s neat life. but sentimentality stilled your hand, the phone dropping from your limp fingers and crashing to the floor. you didn’t bother reaching for it.

the accursed memories refuse to let you be, another bobbing up to the surface from the murky depths and pulling you under before you could stop it. one that showed what little agency you had in your own life.

it started the way it always did. you noticed him. noticed how tired he was every time you spoke. how you went from going out on dates to always staying in to maybe being lucky enough to say good night over the phone before he crashed for the day. and sure, you were lonely. so starved for him it ached. but that was overshadowed by your worry for him. you would lay awake wondering if he’d remember to eat that day, if he had the energy to clean his apartment and if he didn’t, how much was that adding to his stress?

so you swung by his place the next morning after he had left for practice, spent the day cleaning, restocked his fridge and were nearly done making dinner when he returned. his exhaustion was truly hammered home when he walked straight past the kitchen on autopilot before doubling back, tilting his head at you in confusion.

“what are you doing here, darling?”

“helping out.” you turned back to the stove and busied yourself with mindless stirring, afraid that you’d been too eager and overstepped. “you seemed pretty tired these days so i wanted to do something for you but you’re back earlier than i expected so i can just go if you want to be alone just let me-”

your rambling was cut off when a force barrelled into you and sakusa hugged you tight from behind, head buried in the crook of your shoulder. all at once, whatever anxiety had been growing fled you and you relaxed into his touch.

“thank you.” it wasn’t the words that made your heart leap to your throat. it was the sincerity, the slight crack at the end that told you he had more he wanted to say but didn’t know how.

you fell into a routine of going over to his apartment, looking after things, kissing him when he returned and staying over at night. at first, it was once a week. then over the weekend, then every other day.

“you should move in.” even though you half expected your relationship to take this next step, it still took you by surprise the casual way sakusa brought it up. you weren’t entirely sure if you wanted to move in with him just yet. you built a home with hinata and that apartment meant everything to you, all your happiest memories were made there and oh no sakusa was still waiting for an answer.

“i should?”

“yeah.”

and that was the end of it. you were packed and out of hinata’s apartment (because it was his now. his and atsumu’s. not yours, it’ll never be yours again) by the end of the month. most of your things didn’t come with you but that was fine, right? so what if you still felt like a guest in your home even to this day with none of yourself being reflected in the apartment? you got to wake up to see the love of your life every day and that made everything worth it.

until you started waking up alone.

extra training, he said. the team drafted new players and he had to get used to their play style, he said. and you believed him, trusted that he’d be home with you if he could. so you took the crushing loneliness and swallowed it down like a bitter pill. you smiled wide when he came home late with only the moon to light your bedroom and let him use your body to rid the stress of the day.

the dead of night was the only time you’d have him all to yourself. you could be greedy for his attention when he was buried inside you. it was easy to pretend you clawed up and down his back because you were caught up in the moment and not because you were desperate to keep him close to you. easy to pretend the tears in your eyes were from pleasure and not from how much you missed his voice.

and when he was empty and spent, you would stroke his hair until he fell asleep and then, only then, would you whisper all the things you couldn’t tell him during the day. small, meaningless anecdotes that you knew would earn you a wry smile if he was awake to hear them, the one he used when he didn’t want to let on how close he was to laughing. the stolen moments were a salve on your fractured heart but it was never enough to heal it. in the end, when you were once again alone in your too-wide bed, it only served to remind you just how deep the cracks were.

maybe that’s where you went wrong. you gave away your heart to someone and got nothing in return, nothing to plug up the all-consuming void in your chest. there was nothing left of you. no, that wasn’t quite true. there was nothing good left of you. you gave him your best parts and all you had now was pure resentment that burned hot and fierce in your core, so acidic it ate everything in its path. it burned away the dredges of your soul until all you could do was allow it to climb up and scorch your throat in a silent scream.

another memory. it’s strange what your brain chose to latch onto as you spiralled. on the surface, you remember this to be a happier time. but as it overtook you, you’re reminded almost violently that the edges of this memory are stained with the early decay of your identity.

before the early mornings and late nights, before you got into the habit of staring at your ceiling and wondering how you got to that point, you and sakusa had a tradition. you’d both find something, a story, a movie, that you think the other doesn’t know and share it with them. that day sakusa came to you with the myth of orpheus and eurydice.

he told you the story of a man so in love with his wife he journeys to the underworld after she dies to find her, how hades tells him he can guide her to the land of the living but orpheus must trust that eurydice is following him. if he turns around, eurydice’s fate is sealed. sakusa explained how in every version of the myth, orpheus turned around at the very end out of an uncontrollable, unfiltered love for his wife. whether it was because he was excited to see the end of the tunnel and wanted to share his joy with her or because he feared she got lost, either one stems from the love he has for her. the love that sent him to find her is the same love that doomed her in the end. but the more sakusa spoke about orpheus, the more you wondered about the other protagonist of the story.

“why didn’t eurydice try to let orpheus know she was there? she could’ve held his hand or touched his back or something.” you asked. you were laying your head on sakusa’s chest, letting the low rumble wash over you as he read you the tale. the question had been bugging you as the story came to its conclusion though you couldn’t place your finger as to why.

“she was a spirit. she would pass right through him.”

“yeah but…” you searched for the words to explain your confusion. “she didn’t even try.”

“it wouldn’t have mattered either way.”

you opened your mouth to press the issue further, too stubborn to let it go just yet when you heard sakusa sigh out of his nose. it was enough for any question to die on your tongue and all that came out was a quiet, “i guess so.”

it was a nothing memory. an empty thing to remind you of better times that you’ve had no need to look back on. so why did that moment swirl around your head now, as you crumbled in your lowest moments? scattered pieces start to form together in the recesses of your mind but before you could call them forth to make a full image, the bedroom door swung open and sakusa walked in.

for once, you don’t slip on your well worn porcelain mask. you don’t school your expression and force it to mold into something that couldn’t quite be called happy. instead, you sat up straight in bed, held his gaze and did nothing to hide the maelstrom of hurt that raged inside you. a sick satisfaction shot through your veins when his steps faltered at the force of your stare.

“what’s wrong?” he asked.

what isn’t? you thought but instead said, “nothing. i was just thinking. about us.”

“oh.” his eyes are already sliding away from you, a quiet detachment in his voice that made you grind your teeth in frustration.

“remember that greek story you told me about?”

“mhmm.”

“tell me again why eurydice didn’t reach out.” there it is again. a short, sharp exhale from his nose. he opened his mouth but you spoke before he could. “humour me.”

“she was dead, darling. she couldn’t touch him, he couldn’t hear her so there was no point.”

“no point? there was no point in trying to tell orpheus that she was behind him? he climbed into the underworld for her and she couldn’t try?”

“could you--?” he cut himself off and pinched the bridge of his nose. “it’s late. i’m exhausted and really not in the mood so can we go to bed?”

“doesn’t that sound familiar?” you continued as though he hadn’t spoken. “one person bending heaven and hell for the person they love while the other can’t even meet them halfway. remind you of anything?”

now you had his full attention. his brows scrunched together and you’re not sure if he’s trying to figure out the meaning behind your words or the reason for your hostile tone. you don’t feel like helping him out either and instead watched the gears turn in his head with something akin to glee. it’s his turn to be paranoid, to overthink, to pick apart every moment of your relationship and dissect it piece by rotted piece.

“please don’t be vague. if you’re upset with me, tell me.” it was the most emotion you’ve heard from him in so long, you were taken aback for a moment.

“i’m a bit past ‘upset’, omi.”

“i’m sorry.”

you scoffed. “you don’t even know what you’re apologizing for.”

“you’re hurt and it’s my fault. that's enough for me to say sorry.”

“you don’t understand.” he crossed the room in three large strides, sitting on the edge of the bed to leave space between you.

“then help me understand.”

you floundered for the right words to explain the mountain of revelations you’ve uncovered and settled for, “how do i take my coffee, kiyoomi?”

he took your use of his full name in stride. “black. one sugar.”

“no that’s how you take your coffee. that’s the only way you ever make coffee. i had to learn to like it.”

“what, you’re mad i don’t know how you like your coffee?” you know he didn’t mean anything by it, that’s he's always been more blunt that he means to be but it doesn’t stop you from feeling patronized and the hurt loosened your tongue.

“it’s not about the coffee! it’s not about the fact that eurydice was a ghost. it’s the effort, omi. you haven’t put an ounce of effort into this relationship. i’m the one who has to bend. i’m the one that has to change, it’s never you.”

“i never asked you to.” the truth of the statement knocked the air out of your lungs. because that's the worst part, isn’t it? you have no one to blame your misery on but yourself.

“i don’t know how to love you without sacrificing pieces of myself. and i’m empty, kiyoomi, i've given you all of me. and it feels like you’ve given me nothing in return.”

his head was bowed while he listened but from how tight he laced his fingers together, you know he was fighting to stay calm. “you know i love you, right?”

“do you? do you love me or love that i’m convenient? love that i clean your place and make you food and have a hole you can--”

“stop.” you didn’t know it was possible for so much heartbreak to be packed into a single word. it sobered you of your venom and in its place, shame came rushing in.

“i’m sorry. i'm pissed at myself for letting it get this far and i’m taking it out on you. i don’t regret loving you. but it feels like that’s the only thing living inside me. like i’m not even a person anymore.”

“i should’ve noticed. it shouldn’t have taken you snapping for me to realize what was going on.”

“maybe.”

silence, suffocating silence, stretched and morphed time until it felt like you’ve aged a decade in a moment. and then sakusa spoke.

“you’ll help a stranger just because they look like they might need it and ask for nothing in return. you’ll make someone food just so you can be sure they ate that day. you’ll tell me about your day while i fall asleep and i don’t think i could sleep without hearing your voice. you’re kind and too selfless for your own good and the best person i’ve ever met. it kills me that i’ve been the cause of your pain.”

it was strange hearing those traits spun in a good light when you’ve thought of them negatively for so long. strange knowing where you saw faults he saw things worth admiring. “you hear me at night?”

“and you like focusing on minor details. yes, darling. every night.”

“oh.”

“i understand if you need… space, if you want to spend some time apart. but give me a chance. please. give me a chance to prove how important you are to me. i’m sorry that i’ve failed you. i’m sorry i've been taking you for granted. but that ends now. never again.

“and i can help you, too. i can remind you of all the parts you say you’ve lost. i’ll tell you all about the person i fell in love with everyday if you need it. i’d never run out of things to say. please. you found me once, let me return the favour and help you find yourself. if-if you’ll have me.”

his small speech wasn’t the reason tears stung the back of your eyes. as he finished speaking, sakusa reached out across the space between you and offered you his hand. a lifeline that you took, the lump in your throat to keeping everything you wanted to say stuck inside you. thankfully, you needed no words for sakusa to understand you. he brought your joined fingers to his lips and let out a shaky breath against them. the two of you stayed like that for a small eternity, drifted apart yet holding together with a bridge to link you. you’ve been fueled by resentment and anger for so long, you weren’t sure if you were strong enough to let them go. but you did know that you didn’t want to try without him by your side.

#sakusa x reader #sakusa angst #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu angst #haikyuu imagine #sakusa kiyoomi x reader #sakusa kiyoomi angst #haikyuu!! x reader #haikyuu!! angst

595 notes · View notes

xpurgatory · 6 years ago

Text

05. february

Prolog and note.

This not fanfiction.

It’s barely fiction. This is a story/anecdote that has been weighing me down. I’ve wanted to tell it for a long time but it’s been like water. I can’t give you water. I thought deeply about how I wanted to present the water—should I pour it into a bowl, or in a vase and stick in a flower? Should I dig a pond or split the earth and change the tide? I didn’t know. Instead, I kept the water inside me, allowing myself to fester and bloat.

Then my friend gave me a well, something that took root and dug deep. Names have been changed and when I get too scared, circumstances have been adjusted as well. Trigger warnings for some heavy shit like eating disorders, body image, drugs, and abusive relationships.

01.

In 2005, Allie met Rafa at a prestigious summer program for gifted high school students. That is where the story dies and begins again.

In 2004, Allie began dating Brett. By that time, Allie and I were best friends again after some long years of some cold shoulder fighting that only girls of a certain age could pull off. We were very similar. We both experienced massive growth spurts over the past two summers, such that, by 2004, we loomed as amazons among the men. We were beautiful amazons, but we were also 16 years ago with bodies too large for everyone else’s comfort, so grey clouds blurred our vision when we looked in the mirror. By contrast, Brett was perhaps one of the shortest and skinniest boys in our cohort. When Allie and Brett made out in the hallway, she’d lean back on the lockers and sort of squat while he stood between her thighs. Our peers fussed and groaned with disgust. But Allie—Allie seemed to revel in it. She seemed to love the attention—although privately, she’d confess that she wasn’t quite sure why she began this relationship. I mean, we all knew what Brett got out of it. He loved his incredibly intelligent, gorgeous, amazonian goddess and he knew that this dream was not sustainable. He knew what other people thought—including that time a confused store clerk saw them together, signaled Brett over, and literally asked him, “Are you rich?”

But then the Bloomberg Summit happened. The prestigious summer program selected Allie for their political science cohort, whisking her off to New York City for a few weeks. There, she met Rafa, a student in their creative writing cohort.

Allie told me about it later. About Rafa’s broad shoulders and broad prose, which the Summit honed to the fine point of an ice pick. About how Rafa spoke to her in a way that made her feel as if the rest of the world dropped away. He furiously turned out poetry about her, for her, and she, having never eaten before, devoured them. Their whirlwind summer romance was every romance in the movies, and when she returned to our quiet town, she collapsed on her bed, a burned out husk.

“What about Brett,” I asked her.

“Eh, I’ll never see Rafa again. It’ll probably be okay.”

And, unsurprisingly, it was. Brett desperately clung onto his dream despite the fact that Allie still dreamed about Rafa. In 2006, they were accepted into different ivy league universities and parted ways. I, too, left Allie’s story and drifted out of her life for the next decade. I didn’t know how much I would need her later.

02.

In 2011, Anthony Weiner’s sexting scandal erupted rudely into our lives. The 24/7 news cycle regaled the nation with that one (1) photo of Weiner’s weiner (you know what I’m talking about, reader, there’s no way to forget it). As we watched Weiner hold press conferences with a mixture of fascination and disgust, our eyes not only rested on him, but on his wife, the brilliant and silent Huma Abedin. In rancorous bewilderment, we stared at her standing behind her husband and held court in our homes. Why did she stay with him? Is she stupid? Is she naïve? Is she staying for their kid? Doesn’t she know that her husband is a sexual deviant and she’s just endangering her kid? She’s weak. She’s a terrible mom. She must not care about anything. She’s so greedy. She’s too power-hungry. She’s bringing women down. If she were a real woman, she’d leave him now.

In 2011, I met Daniel. He was a new post-doctoral fellow while I was a new graduate student, and I manufactured excuses to be on the same floor as him. Eventually, he asked me out, thus beginning an on-and-off romance dominated by anticipation and anxiety. He—he was a tremoring soul. At one point, he disowned his father after his father told him that he wished that Daniel had never been born; at another, he told me that he just proposed to his ex-girlfriend. I saw other men in the spaces in-between (and sometimes in the thick of it all), but I never stayed the night. We remained friends, sometimes hesitantly, throughout it all and he was there when my car broke down and my friend got a divorce as I was there at his father’s tumultuous wedding and when his mom got sick. We went on vacation together, spent weekends together, drove to work together, and no matter who else we kept on the side, we always used “we” when referring to us. After four years of chaos, he declared that he was done with other women and wanted me to be his girlfriend. I agreed—although, at the time, I had begun emotionally preparing myself to leave him forever. The next few months were fine until January rolled around and I asked why we weren’t having sex very often.

At first, it was because he was tired from being at the gym. Then, it was because he was very stressed out from work. Then, it was because, I don’t know, he just ate a lot or something.

Then, it was me.

I had an odd smell down there, it seemed. It was puzzling. I sniffed my underwear and smelled nothing unusual. Men, if you’re reading this, you have to understand that the vagina can be weird, but women know when there’s something off. I did not feel unusual. I did not feel like I needed to pee often or that I itched. But he kept insisting that something was off. Once, he insisted during a time in my cycle where there was more discharge than expected even though I still felt fine.

“You should go see the doctor,” Daniel insisted.

“But I feel fine.”

“No, something must be wrong.”

I frowned. “But what if there’s nothing wrong? What if that’s just me?”

He did not look at me when he answered, “There has to be something wrong.”

I left the apartment that morning without saying goodbye. I did not feel anything when I got home and scheduled an appointment with the gynecologist for the next day. I, who was earning her doctorate in reproductive endocrinology, did not feel a single thing as I calmly sat down in front of the gynecologist and explained that there may be something wrong with me down there.

She began the usual routine. “Do you feel itching? Do you smell something off?”

“No.”

“Do you feel pain? Is there an unusual discharge?”

“No, I feel fine.”

She squinted. “Okay… Why are you here?”

“My boyfriend said that something smelled off.”

Her eyes grew wide and her lips pursed. We were still, together, for a moment before she asked, “He actually said that to you?”

Something swelled up inside of me but I slapped it down. My voice remained steady despite the heat creeping up my neck. “Yes.”

“God, I hate men.”

Regardless, we proceeded. I laid back and put my feet in the stirrups while a cold metal instrument poked and prodded around inside my body. I stared at the ceiling, replaying the doctor’s last words over and over again in my mind, and forcing myself to breathe as we do in yoga class.

After the doctor closed me up, she said that I was fine. The “weird” smell would probably go away in a few days, like how all normal smells do. (Later, I discovered that my daily vitamin had actually expired last year, and stopped taking them. Afterwards, I immediately returned back to “normal.”) Meanwhile, she would really appreciate it if I can bring my boyfriend some educational materials and/or maybe take him out back for a beating. For the next few days, I did not respond to Daniel’s texts until I got a, “I need to talk to you. Can I come over?”

That was when I found out about his addiction.

03.

In 2010, Allie and I obtained our bachelor degrees. I entered graduate school while she began working at a 6-figure job at a hedge fund company in New York City so that she could pay off her student loans as well as save for law school. She moved into a small apartment by the American Museum of Natural History, and I would visit her over the summer to party with her and her roommates. We went hard--dancing at La Caverna, Beauty Bar, Red Room (RIP), on the bar tops of Coyote Ugly, smoking with budding movie producers, running down Broadway with ripped fishnets, Insomnia Cookies at 3am, one-night stands with uppity uptown folk, late nights with smeared eyeliner and broken heels. Then, one summer, Allie told me that she met a guy. Dylan. He seemed nice. Over dinner at our favorite vegan restaurant, Allie took out her phone and said that Dylan’s dick was that thick. I rolled my eyes. We’d see how long this would last.

Allie proved me dead wrong. In 2015, as I quietly prepared myself to drop Daniel for good, Allie called to announce their engagement and asked if I could attend her wedding. I pictured bringing Daniel. But, even though I had already held his shaking hands while we watched his father get re-married, I could not imagine taking him to my friend’s wedding. I was also nearing the end of graduate school and unsure about my future. So I sent in my RSVP but did not commit. I was lucky that Allie loved me enough to entertain my uncertainty.

Then I found out about Daniel’s addiction.

Unexpectedly, the actor Terry Crews explained it the best. On February 11, 2016, Terry began releasing a series of videos called Dirty Little Secret. His timing was impeccable. In 2016, a few days after my humiliating visit to the gynecologist, Daniel came over and confessed to urges that he did not understand and could not control. It came over him, you know? When he’d do it, he’d enter this headspace and he felt so good and like he could do anything, you know? You know heroin? When he’s doing it, that’s probably how heroin feels? He can’t stop. He tried to stop it when we started dating for real, but then the urges just built up and even though he loved me, he’d wake up some days resenting me, hating me, pushing me away. He wanted to stop. He wanted to stop so badly because he could see how it was making me feel, how ugly it was making me feel, and he hated himself for it and he couldn’t stop. He’d been doing it since he was ten years old, you know, and he wanted to stop. He really wanted to stop.

I did not know the correct language at the time, and when I look back, I don’t know if he already knew or if he was kidding himself. All I could do, while he confessing his sins, was watch my boyfriend and best friend split before my eyes. He became two people—the guy who once said that my problems were his problems and that other guy, the monster, who once said that it was not him, it was me. The problem was me.

At the end of that conversation, Daniel circled back to pushing me away. We should take a break, he said, because he needed to figure this out on his own. He could not keep watching me go through the pain of enduring his trials and errors while he figured it out. And he would fix himself, he promised, he would fix himself—maybe, two months? Two months. Maybe less. What do you think about that, babe? Whatever, it was going to happen anyway.

Reader, I want you to understand that these situations are rarely sudden. It’s a stepwise process, and I was so immersed under water that I could not wipe my eyes lest I forgot to breathe. I couldn’t even move. Instead, I stood still, perfectly still, as he moved me across the board to whatever position suited him that day. In January, I smelled weird. In late January, it was me. In early February, it’s not me, it’s him. In mid-February, I was unfuckable. In early March, I was very fuckable. In mid-March, I was out of my mind trying to leave him, please don’t you understand that some people make mistakes, sometimes we’re not ready to talk about our mistakes, we’re not talking about this tonight. In late March, I was his only safe place in the world. In April, I was stressing him out. In May, he slept with someone else and told me it was only going to get worse but maybe we can still be friends?

So he showed me the door out and I left.

Terry Crews puts it the best. In one of his videos, he addresses the wives and tells them to get out. Get the fuck out. There is nothing you can do, so take care of yourself and leave right now. That’s what we told Huma, right? Standing in front of our TV screens, cozy in our ignorance, we yelled get out girl because it’s only going to get worse. In our blissful bubble, we added, with both pity and rancor, you’re too smart for this. You’re a strong and independent woman. How dare you betray us by standing there?

Later, I found out that after I got out, he sank into a deep depression because he did not expect me to cut off all ties. He’d show up unexpectedly because he knew where my office was, and he’d try to cozy up to my friends. Eventually, he texted and asked if I could help him because his pain was too much—and you know what reader? I did. Despite having hollowed myself out to make room for the ego of a grown man who could not control himself, I put off rebuilding my destroyed body, my lungs and stomach and words, to help him regain his ground. I felt light, weightless, mute. Some time in September, I developed a cough that lasted for the rest of the year. Eventually, Daniel got accepted to a faculty position. He declared himself to be sober but if he were to remain that way, he had to stop speaking to me because I was stressing him out. Thus, once more, I was the problem.

I haven’t heard from him since.

04.

Last year, I celebrated New Years with Allie and Dylan in Chicago. Allie emerged from the bedroom on New Year’s day while Dylan slept in, so she seized on the chance and asked, seriously, how was I doing.

“You never told me exactly what happened,” she pointed out.

“No, I haven’t really told anyone.”

We were quiet for a while. Then, slowly, she asked, “Did I ever tell you that I met Rafa again?”

In the summer of 2006, before we started university, Rafa called Allie and said that he was now living in northern New Jersey, just a bus ride away from our home town. She immediately agreed to meet and packed a weekend bag. Rafa lived in a tiny loft in the outskirts of an industrial town where the lakes appeared as a flat olive green. Allie felt off with her Coach bag and Lucky jeans but as soon as she entered the apartment, Rafa greeted her with open arms and a stack of poetry he had furiously scribbled out in anticipation of their reunion. The weekend flew by and she would return, week after week, even after the commute stretched because she had to move south for university. She adored Rafa’s roommate, an easy-going guy who never seemed to be around, as well as Rafa’s best friend who lived downstairs. But, most of all, she loved, loved Rafa and he loved her.

Then, it started. Rafa had always been temperamental. She’d known this since the Summit—he would passionately court her with new verses just as soon as he began ranting about some injustice in the world. It made his poetry better, hotter, she’d say. Also, it’d make him better in bed. But then Rafa’s moods turned her way. Why was she dressed like that? What was going on with her hair? Allie got rid of her skinny jeans. She cut her hair.

After a few months, she found the needles in the bathroom.

“But here’s the thing,” Allie tells me in her Chicago apartment, where her husband sleeps in the next room and her law degree hangs on the wall. Her voice drops down to a whisper. “I didn’t leave him then. I stayed.”

After discovering the needles and confronting her boyfriend, Allie continued to make those long trips up to see Rafa, who began to use openly in front of her. His mood swings and scrutiny intensified. One day, she asked why they weren’t having sex as frequently, and he looked her in the eyes and stated, “Because you’re too fat.”

Allie paused.

She won’t really remember this part until later, but apparently, she packed her weekender bag while Rafa got high in the bathroom, and walked downstairs to Rafa’s best friend’s apartment. She asked if she could stay until her bus the next morning. Later, he’d ask her for sex and she’d agree, but she wouldn’t feel it.

When she got back to her dorm room on Sunday evening, she locked the door to the suite’s bathroom and stuck her finger down her throat.

“Do you remember how skinny I was when we hung out after we graduated?” Allie asks. “That’s why. I’m better now but that was a long four years.”

I stare at the ceiling of her Chicago apartment.

“Look,” Allie continues, shifting around on her seat, her voice lowering even more and her eyes darting to the bedroom door. “I love Dylan, but you think I love, love him? Dylan is amazing. We have so much fun together and he’s my perfect partner. But listen, Tracy, I’m not out-of-my-fucking-mind in love with him. You were out-of-your-fucking-mind in love with Daniel. Rafa was the love of my life, but I can’t do that kind of shit again.”

She takes a breath. “That’s why I married Dylan, because he’s not the love of my life. Because, well, you got to think about yourself you know? You’ve got to survive.”

05.

After two years, I’m better at telling this story. I am better at staring at it directly instead of out of the peripheries, collecting my rapidly beating heart, and shoving it back into obscurity. I’m better about the shame, even though now, as I write this, I still have to change certain details. I have held back, hesitated, asked, “Do I really want to be this honest?”

I think artists and writers who create deeply flawed, personal stories and then release them into the wild are the bravest. I think about Huma, and the courage and strength needed to silently stand on a stage and stare at her burden, her liar, while the rest of the world, in their absolute arrogance, scorn her for choosing to carry it for as long as she can. How dare her. How dare you.

#original

0 notes