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I feel like tossed-aside trash, which is worse than regular trash, which is disposed of properly in designated containers. I’m more like the tasteless, hard gum pressed to the underside of a desk or a cigarette butt flicked out of a car speeding down a highway. I’m the holey sock that lost its partner in the rinse cycle. I’m worthless. I’m worse than nothing; I’m the something that he wanted to unceremoniously toss aside.
We haven’t talked in nearly a week. I reach for my phone every night and look through ghost messages. Those “sweet dreams” and “good mornings” feel empty now. I’ve stared at them for too long, and they’ve lost the luster they had when they were sent months ago. I’ve waited for new ones when none were sent. And when I was crumbled in a ball, shaking nervously holding down the bile in my stomach, I wanted to call him and beg him to forget all our arguments and just hold me. But I didn’t.
And I decided it was time to treat him as he was treating me: like the complete strangers we had been to each other a year ago. Four days passed, I didn’t see him, and we were strangers once again.
Until now, when I cross directly into his path as I’m leaving the student center.
I freeze, staring at the familiar golden hair and gentle passive smile on his lips. He’s looking down at his phone, smiling at someone else’s texts, thinking about someone else. My legs shake as I turn on my heel. He hasn’t seen me, and I have time to keep the façade of perfect indifference— or whatever role I’m taking on. I slip back into the crowd.
But he still sees me, and he calls out my name. I keep walking—faster.
Maybe I can’t hear him over the crowd. Maybe I don’t recognize the voice calling my name. Maybe there are other girls in the area named Amanda and they’ll think he’s talking to them— maybe he’ll give up.
I leave the echoes of the atrium behind and shuffle into the courtyard: my eyes glued to the pavement, my hands fiddling with my phone, my back straight, my steps wide.
“Amanda!” He calls out, loudly. Now people pause. Now they all turn. Now I have to turn around too.
He says my name again, softer, as he jogs to catch up to me. The tone of those three syllables is achingly familiar to three words once whispered. Maybe he’s been looking for me every day that I’ve been running from him. Maybe he takes back everything he said before. Maybe he misses me.
I craft my face into a look of confusion. Oh, I’ll say, I didn’t know you were behind me.
“Hey,” he shrugs nonchalantly, swinging his backpack off of his shoulder. “I’m glad I found you. I have something to give to you.”
He fiddles with the zipper as I watch him, puzzled. He reaches into the smallest pocket and cups something in his palm before holding it out to me.
“Oh.” I stare at the glint of silver. “My earing…”
He beams, flashing a white grin, quirked slightly favoring the right. “I found it again.”
We lost it months ago when we weren’t strangers. I reach out, my fingers grazing his palm, and I tremble.
I was trembling that night too as I placed my jewelry on his shelf by the bed…
His fingers weave through my hair, snagging slightly on the frizzy curls. Brushing his fingers lightly down my neck, he traces a path which he follows after with his lips. He finds my pulse, and heat rushes to my face as I let out a ragged breath. He lifts his eyes to mine, our noses touching, and I giggle. Biting my lip, I look away and swallow my nervous titters and sigh. He catches the sound with a kiss.
A little later, his hand clumsily sweeps across the shelf in the dark. He curses as we hear something slip off the shelf and clatter on the floor. Leaning on my elbows, I sit up. “Was that my earing?”
He presses me gently back against the sheets, following me down. Huskily, he whispers, “We’ll find it tomorrow.”
Suddenly, I can’t worry about jewelry.
Two months later, I think my earing is lost forever. So I toss its twin away. I’m not a pirate, and I have other earrings anyway…
I’m staring at the prodigal hoop.
“Thanks,” I mutter, palming it as I turn to walk away.
“How are you?” he asks abruptly.
I force a smile to rival his grin. “Better.”
He doesn’t need to know what I looked like when I peeled myself off the floor to run to the bathroom. Or that today was the first day in over a week that I could stomach more than one meal a day. I am better now, but he doesn’t need to know how bad I was. It’s supposed to be this way, right? He didn’t want to be needed.
“That’s great.”
His smile seems genuine — feels as authentic as the smiles that proceeded kisses. But those are ghost kisses. This smile is just a smile. He’s only a good friend on my good days but a stranger when it’s more convenient. The inkling of logic in me says that I don’t need friends like that. He’s as useless as a single silver hoop.
“Mhmm.” I walk away and my smile drops. I don’t need him. I’ll throw the earing away. I’ll look kindly on the day when we actually were strangers.
I leave him standing there. Or maybe he turned away the same time I did. I don’t want to know if he’s gone or if he’s looking back at me with regret or confusion. I don’t want to know if he remembered how we lost the earing or how he felt when he found it — I really want to know why he didn’t just throw it away.
I should just throw it away.
It’s six hours later now, and that earing is burning a hole into my pocket.
We haven’t talked in nearly a week. I reach for my phone every night and look through ghost messages. Those “sweet dreams” and “good mornings” feel empty now. I’ve stared at them for too long, and they’ve lost the luster they had when they were sent months ago. I’ve waited for new ones when none were sent. And when I was crumbled in a ball, shaking nervously holding down the bile in my stomach, I wanted to call him and beg him to forget all our arguments and just hold me. But I didn’t.
And I decided it was time to treat him as he was treating me: like the complete strangers we had been to each other a year ago. Four days passed, I didn’t see him, and we were strangers once again.
Until now, when I cross directly into his path as I’m leaving the student center.
I freeze, staring at the familiar golden hair and gentle passive smile on his lips. He’s looking down at his phone, smiling at someone else’s texts, thinking about someone else. My legs shake as I turn on my heel. He hasn’t seen me, and I have time to keep the façade of perfect indifference— or whatever role I’m taking on. I slip back into the crowd.
But he still sees me, and he calls out my name. I keep walking—faster.
Maybe I can’t hear him over the crowd. Maybe I don’t recognize the voice calling my name. Maybe there are other girls in the area named Amanda and they’ll think he’s talking to them— maybe he’ll give up.
I leave the echoes of the atrium behind and shuffle into the courtyard: my eyes glued to the pavement, my hands fiddling with my phone, my back straight, my steps wide.
“Amanda!” He calls out, loudly. Now people pause. Now they all turn. Now I have to turn around too.
He says my name again, softer, as he jogs to catch up to me. The tone of those three syllables is achingly familiar to three words once whispered. Maybe he’s been looking for me every day that I’ve been running from him. Maybe he takes back everything he said before. Maybe he misses me.
I craft my face into a look of confusion. Oh, I’ll say, I didn’t know you were behind me.
“Hey,” he shrugs nonchalantly, swinging his backpack off of his shoulder. “I’m glad I found you. I have something to give to you.”
He fiddles with the zipper as I watch him, puzzled. He reaches into the smallest pocket and cups something in his palm before holding it out to me.
“Oh.” I stare at the glint of silver. “My earing…”
He beams, flashing a white grin, quirked slightly favoring the right. “I found it again.”
We lost it months ago when we weren’t strangers. I reach out, my fingers grazing his palm, and I tremble.
I was trembling that night too as I placed my jewelry on his shelf by the bed…
His fingers weave through my hair, snagging slightly on the frizzy curls. Brushing his fingers lightly down my neck, he traces a path which he follows after with his lips. He finds my pulse, and heat rushes to my face as I let out a ragged breath. He lifts his eyes to mine, our noses touching, and I giggle. Biting my lip, I look away and swallow my nervous titters and sigh. He catches the sound with a kiss.
A little later, his hand clumsily sweeps across the shelf in the dark. He curses as we hear something slip off the shelf and clatter on the floor. Leaning on my elbows, I sit up. “Was that my earing?”
He presses me gently back against the sheets, following me down. Huskily, he whispers, “We’ll find it tomorrow.”
Suddenly, I can’t worry about jewelry.
Two months later, I think my earing is lost forever. So I toss its twin away. I’m not a pirate, and I have other earrings anyway…
I’m staring at the prodigal hoop.
“Thanks,” I mutter, palming it as I turn to walk away.
“How are you?” he asks abruptly.
I force a smile to rival his grin. “Better.”
He doesn’t need to know what I looked like when I peeled myself off the floor to run to the bathroom. Or that today was the first day in over a week that I could stomach more than one meal a day. I am better now, but he doesn’t need to know how bad I was. It’s supposed to be this way, right? He didn’t want to be needed.
“That’s great.”
His smile seems genuine — feels as authentic as the smiles that proceeded kisses. But those are ghost kisses. This smile is just a smile. He’s only a good friend on my good days but a stranger when it’s more convenient. The inkling of logic in me says that I don’t need friends like that. He’s as useless as a single silver hoop.
“Mhmm.” I walk away and my smile drops. I don’t need him. I’ll throw the earing away. I’ll look kindly on the day when we actually were strangers.
I leave him standing there. Or maybe he turned away the same time I did. I don’t want to know if he’s gone or if he’s looking back at me with regret or confusion. I don’t want to know if he remembered how we lost the earing or how he felt when he found it — I really want to know why he didn’t just throw it away.
I should just throw it away.
It’s six hours later now, and that earing is burning a hole into my pocket.
