Let Them
How do you know when it’s time to move on with your life? Do we roll out of bed one day and just know the next steps? Maybe that’s a little too broad and chaotic of a question but being in this “post-graduation lull” has me thinking about flipping to the next chapter.
I stare aimlessly at my bedroom ceiling. The chipped white paint and popcorn texture. I wonder how much longer I’ll have to live here. How much longer I’ll be haunted by his ghost. I don’t have an endless portfolio of memories in here. If we peel back the fresh pink paint, we’ll find a shade of dark blue, screaming beneath the layers that cover it.
My childhood bedroom is right next door, except its now referred as the guest room except parts of me still live in there. The painted clouds on the ceiling are mine, same with the shelves covered with gymnastics memorabilia and the ceramic hand painted Winnie the pooh light switch cover. My manacan still sits in the corner, wearing my old senior night sash and my bin of stuffed animals in tucked under the bed.
I moved into my brother room shortly after he moved out, and I moved back home. It’s been three years in here and I’m still not too comfortable. Little ruminants of him remain scattered. Like his full name written in thick sharpie on the top of the floor heater. The same one I huddle my ankles next to in the peak of winter. The three little holes in the ceiling from where his buzz lightyear action figure used to hang. Even the shelfs my dad had gifted to him from amazon, they used to display his bobble head collection, but they were now replaced with my collection of vintage film cameras.
He's not dead, I apologize if I’ve made it out to seem that way. But in another way, isn’t he?
I push the thought of him out of my mind. I distract myself with things like reruns of Love Island and those goddamn “paint- by- numbers” canvases. I now have a collection of paintings rolled up into tight tubes. I even ended up painting a portrait of the Mona Lisa.
But no matter how many meaningless and unenriching hobbies I try to pick up, my mind is never fully off him. He sits in the very back of my brain, hiding in the nooks and crannies of every corner. Slithering through the bumps of my brains just reminding me, ever so often, ever so silently, that he’s still here. Rent free. Every year in June, when the air finally starts to smell of summer and the pool is just warm enough to dip my feet in, I’m reminded of the fact that he left. He hasn’t texted. He hasn’t called. I’m blocked on Twitter and Instagram and Facebook, and I wasn’t even told why. But that doesn’t matter now. I wonder if things next year might be different, I pray they will be. But every year has been a mimic of the last.
Now, this ending isn’t sad. It doesn’t include a reunion or someone showing up to their house late at night in the rain. But I’ve been forced to write my own ending to our relationship. I’m now forced to write the end of our story because his had got too tired. He couldn’t write anymore. And now, I can’t take it anymore.
Just, let them.
Let them take care of you and let them call you twice a day. Let them rattle on about complete nonsense and giggle from the other end of the phone. Let them return that platter you lent them half a year ago finally. At least they returned it covered in assorted cookies. Let them send you that book recommendation and accept that invitation out to dinner. If you still have them, hold them. Just let them. Just fucking let them.
But don’t forget…
Let them walk away. Do not please. Do not beg. Don’t lower yourself to someone who doesn’t want you in their life. Let them end the chapter but know your story hasn’t finished. You must continue writing. And somewhere down the road, if things change, if they come back, never forget the moment they first left.
We change our minds. We change our jobs and our careers. We switch college and switch majors. We choose chocolate over vanilla and snow over sand. We say goodbye to friends and hello to frenemies. We hug those we hated and hate those we loved.
But like every year, when the leaves fade to brown, and summers gone by way too quick, I continue to have hope that next spring, you’ll come back with all the fresh blooms and lovely true greens. Maybe next year, we can be friends again. Maybe. Just maybe…
I won’t get my hopes up.
