Evergreen Masquerades
Article by Julia Nichols, art by Maren Greene
We always knew we had a deadline. That last night is blurry in my mind, like when tears get caught in your eyes and warp your vision. I felt my entire being held in suspense as I tried to act cool for you. As I tried to act like I had accepted it a long time ago–long distance never worked–but deep down my heart whispered stay.
I pulled myself as close to you as I could, trying to remember the feeling of your sweatshirt against my skin, the smell of your hair gel, the smell of you. And when you cried that night, I pushed you away. I wanted to cry too, but I knew that my tears would last longer than yours, and I was right. As you left you kissed me goodbye, and I tasted all the salt that contained the words you were too big of a man to say. The next day on my flight to Colorado, I was certain I would keep you in my life and that nothing needed to change. I texted you as if I hadn’t cried for hours the night before, I FaceTimed you pretending that we were still us from before, I made the same jokes I knew would bring out that smile I had grown too fond of.
At first, we were the same. Or it felt close enough to before that I could convince myself nothing had changed. You had given me a plant for our 11-month anniversary, the last anniversary before I left, and I placed it on the corner of my desk as a reminder of what we could’ve been. What I thought we still could be. But as your messages grew few and far between, the dread in my stomach became harder to suppress. I caught myself checking your location on Snapchat and your activity on Instagram. If you had time for other people, didn’t you still have time for me? The constant tracking, however, backfired. One day as I opened Snapchat to the familiar unopened “sent,” a symbol was missing from beside your name. Trivial, I know, but that little symbol, the proof that you were still my best friend, and I was yours, meant something to me. Now that we didn’t text, Snapchat was all I had, and I knew that whoever took it from me wasn’t just “one of the guys.”
My love for you was blinding, and somehow, I thought that if I looked you in the eyes and told you everything, I could win you back. We had broken up, sure, but we still talked every day, we still watched shows together over FaceTime, your plant was still on my desk. I flew home over block break with an overcompensated sense of confidence and a hint of desperation. The next day you walked up my backdoor steps and I smiled hello, heart in hand. When you smiled back, I knew you had missed me.
I saw her name when I least expected. We were sitting on the couch and as I got up to get a snack I saw a yellow notification, a name that wasn’t mine, and a picture of a girl with red hair. Even now, I feel a simmer of anger as I think about how you responded to her. You were with me, you were in my home, and you were thinking of her. I saw you zoom in on your own face so she wouldn’t see my house in the photo. I didn’t say anything.
We spent the next day at your house. I had done my best to erase the pain of yesterday– this was my second chance. I met your college friends: three roommates and a girl with red hair who was introduced as your roommate’s high school friend. No, I didn’t put the pieces together back then. My anger simmers about that too.
After dinner, I climbed into your bed knowing you would follow. I played coy by showing you TikToks I had saved for you, so aware of your hands under my shirt. I thought that if you still wanted me, you still wanted to be with me too. I looked into your eyes and asked you the question I knew could break me. You were honest, but it came out like I had cornered you into a trap. I’m gonna be honest with you, I did go on a date yesterday. I knew dates were likely; I didn’t like knowing it happened less than 24 hours before I saw you. I haven’t kissed anyone I promise, just like, cuddling. That didn’t make me feel better. The last thing I remember clearly was telling you I thought we were worth fighting for. My mind has fragmented the rest in an effort to protect myself. I remember rubbing tears and snot onto my new brown cardigan I had worn just for you. I remember begging you to understand. I’d rather look for someone here. Her name hit me in the chest, and I knew I had lost.
I walked through the airport pale and alone and wearing my new brown cardigan. As I boarded the plane the flight attendant asked me how I was doing. Good, how are you? Until that night, I had never cried until I physically couldn’t produce tears anymore. I cried as quietly as I could, wiping more tears and mucus onto the brown cotton. By the time I landed, white crystals speckled the sleeves.
Every day I would check my phone for remnants of you. I wanted to believe that you were hurting too. And one day there you were, in a photo with some of our old friends, your roommates, and the girl with red hair. Her arm was wrapped behind you and your hand rested on her waist. I finally connected the dots. I felt physically sick, but I couldn’t look away. I zoomed in on every inch of the photo, reading your body language and analyzing her face. I wasn’t sure what hurt most, me finding out on Instagram, you never telling me, your roommates knowing but not saying anything, her standing there with all my old friends, or you by her side. It was like she had stolen who I used to be.
I fell down the rabbit hole of despair and fixation, and no amount of consolation or rationale could bring me back. I looked at photo after photo of her, scrutinizing every detail, trying to understand what made her special, wondering why she was worth your effort and I wasn’t. I didn’t want to know but I had to find out. Was it her face? Her body? Her clothes? Or worse, was it her personality? Her laugh? Her smile? Had she been talking to you since the day I left? Had your roommates known the entire time? Something crushed me that night. I felt abandoned and dirty. You had left me, led me on, and two-timed me behind my back.
I tried to keep busy in the weeks after you, but I only remember the numbness. Every word felt like an echo and every action felt mechanical. My entire body felt heavy but I had no substance. I applied for a job, joined a dance club, and rushed the sororities. I tried to smile at one of the sorority girls; it felt so fake I almost cried. My professor pulled me aside after class one day and asked if I was okay. I’m just a little anxious. She told me she wouldn’t call on me unless I raised my hand.
We didn’t speak for a month. I suffered silently because I didn’t want to tell anyone what I was going through. Because telling people meant it was real. I did my best to avoid all reminders of you, but I preserved the final fragment of us in an unopened Snapchat you had sent the day I left for the airport. My final fragment of power. I refused to give you the satisfaction of acknowledgment. You would wonder what I was doing, you would be afraid that I would never talk to you again, and you would feel the weight of losing me completely.
Over time, I became better at distracting myself. A few hours could pass without me thinking about you…then almost full days…but the nights were always hard. I joined the sorority I rushed, I realized I was bad at dancing but liked it anyway, and slowly the pain began to fade. I watered your plant twice a week. It had grown five new stems that we had named together before block break. The one with the heart-shaped leaf was named after you. College gave me the distance I needed, and the plant kept you close. I kept it alive with a few good memories and as it grew, so did I.