Letters To Nobody

I dream of a house. If you asked me what color it was, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. If you asked me how many rooms it has, I wouldn’t know. But I do know it would have a huge kitchen with bay windows that open onto a back patio. It would be filled with days spent sipping tea and reading books. 

Laughter would ring in the halls and rooms. At least one dog would run through the legs of those who lived there, barking happily and demanding snuggles. 

There would be an office or craft room, and maybe a reading room if we were lucky. There would be open windows in the spring, summer, and fall, and picnics in the backyard. 

There would be lazy mornings on the weekend, and summer evenings spent watching the sun set. There would be bonfires and s’mores, and cookouts with friends. 

There would be winters curled up indoors with mugs of tea and cocoa, enjoying movies and reading books. There would be holidays spent together with those we loved. 

I crawled my way back to consciousness, sighing when I realized I would have to make it through yet another day. I was constantly exhausted, and the cold weather kept me from wanting to get out of bed even more. 

Spring was coming. I knew it was. But it didn’t make the constant slog of gray skies and occasional snow any easier. Even though it was around the corner, it wasn’t here yet. 

Either way we were still stuck inside. Still stuck with the same movies and shows, the same games, and the same routines. 

I was resolutely ignoring my realization that I had maybe something more than friendly feelings when it came to my roommate lately. If I didn’t acknowledge it, there was no way things could get awkward. We would just maintain our usual business. Eventually, the pandemic would end, and whatever I was feeling would probably go away. 

I was desperate for social interaction. I was desperate for company. I was desperate for...banana?

I poked my head out from under my blanket and tentatively sniffed the air. It smelled like a bakery and was definitely not my imagination. 

The oven beeping was muffled through my closed doorway. 

I carefully extracted myself from the mound of blankets I’d taken to cocooning in and hastily stuffed my feet into slippers. Even with the heat on, the air carried a slight chill. 

I pulled my door open a crack. The bedroom door across from me was wide open which meant I probably didn’t have a weird murder-baker taking up residence in the kichen. 

I opened the door the rest of the way and headed down the hall, only catching the soft humming once I stepped into the living room. 

Their laptop was sitting in its usual place, but the screen was dark. I could see the kitchen table covered with cooling racks, muffins filling half of them. 

They stepped out of the small nook and into view, carefully moving the new batch of muffins from the tray and onto the racks. They were smiling, eyes shining despite the raging pandemic pressing down on us. 

“How long have you been up?” 

They jumped, turning to glare at me. “Don’t scare me like that!” 

“You? I was the one who woke up and thought there might be a murder-baker in the house,” I scoffed. 

They rolled their eyes. “If you keep that up I won’t share any muffins with you.” 

“Banana?” 

“Mm-hm.” They held one out to me. 

I smiled and eagerly retrieved the treat. 

They laughed and ducked back into the kitchen. 

I carefully pulled the paper wrapping away and took a bite. It was perfect. 

I know it’s crazy to think, but I’m starting to fall in love with little pieces of you. And those pieces are slotting together into an image that I’m selfishly keeping for myself. 

I love the pictures you send me because you found them neat, and you think I’ll like them. I love that you’re so eager to tell me about your day, never leaving out even the smallest details. And I find myself ready to soak up your words and hold them close. 

I love that you love your body and feel confident in your skin. 

I love that you don’t share my passions, but get excited about them anyway, always prodding me to share more, and sharing my joy.

I love that you ask me questions, and are okay when I’m content to just listen. 

I love that we both wouldn’t mind having a cottage or a cabin in the countryside, leaving behind the noise of people and cars, to have some peace in our own little world. 

I love that you’d let me move halfway across the world to be with you and run towards a better life. 

I love that you’d propose to me with a set of polyhedral, space-themed dice, and I would bring you a rock, because you’re really nerdy about rocks and geology. But we wouldn’t propose in an airport, because we both think that’s cliche and crowded.

I love that even thinking about you helps bring a sense of calm and contentment I haven’t felt in a long time.

I love that we’re both ace, and would love to hold hands one day.

I often wonder when it happens. When people start to compare their kids to others. When they start to consider them ahead of their perceived curve of success. When parents find someone their child needs to catch up to. 

Does it start in elementary school? Does it start with the “gifted” programs that parents have become so obsessed with? Is it earlier? Or does it come later? Does it come purely from grades? Or are extracurriculars factored in using some weighted scale no one has written down?  

I often wonder when you began to hear those phrases. Did she wait until high school to say: “I wish you’d be more like her?” Or were the roots planted long before their hold was tight enough for me to notice? 

Did you start to resent me for it? Did you start to dislike your best friend because I forced myself to study and get good grades in order to keep up with a finish line I’d never reach? Did you start to think I had no faults or made no mistakes when all I can remember are my failures and shortcomings? 

I can’t really blame you if you did come to hate me. I wouldn’t want to be around the person who I was constantly compared to either. If I was in your place I would want to forge my own path and try and leave the chains weighing me down behind. 

But despite all of that, I can’t help but wonder…

Looking at how things are now, how we haven’t talked in nearly seven years, how you’re married and have a child, and how I’m nearly breaking under the weight of anxiety and mental health problems, constantly suffering in a job that I don’t find fulfilling, would your mom still wish you were more like me? 

In the beginning, I didn’t think it would be any different than a long sleepover. I thought we’d spend time together, watch more movies and shows then we could ever imagine, and eventually, we would come out the other side and things would go back to normal. 

Normal still hasn’t returned. 

Instead, we were both doing our best to bring in as much money as possible, manage our mental health, and try not to get too angry if one of us forgot to do the dishes or make dinner preparations. We were managing, and that was what was important. 

Tensions were high these days, and I was just hoping to make it through this without us despising each other when it was over. 

I stared at the two mugs on the counter, a different tea bag steeping in each of them. Darjeeling for them, and chamomile for me. Winter was back again, and worse than ever considering the pandemic we were living through already felt like the ice age. 

An annoyed huff from the other room. An unintelligible mutter. 

I pulled the tea bags from their hot baths, leaving them on an empty plate to cool. A spoonful of sugar for each mug, and a splash of milk to lighten the Darjeeling. 

I picked up the mugs, carefully stepping out of the small kitchen in our shared apartment. I dodged the table we’d wedged into the corner and glanced up as my feet hit carpet, slowing to a stop. 

I’d become used to the sight of them hunched over the small table we’d set up on the floor. They furiously typed on their laptop, a lock of blond-dyed hair slipping free from the bun they’d thrown it up in, their natural color clearly visible at the roots. Neither of us were brave enough to try and do much more than a trim, letting our hair grow out all these months. 

Pens, notepads, and post-its filled most of the space around them as they made little notes and reminders for whatever story they were working on. 

Maybe it was because I was used to this sight, or maybe it was because I couldn’t imagine anyone else taking their place, but I was surprised to realize I’d hate to see this space inhabited by anyone else. Or worse, empty. 

“Tea’s done,” I said, mustering every ounce of cheeriness I could despite the snow that had been falling most of the day. 

They looked up, taking a moment to focus on reality instead of the fictional world playing out on paper. Their gaze cleared and they grinned widely at me, the skin crinkling around their eyes. 

“Great, thanks!” 

Part of me hates the expression: time makes the heart grow fonder. 

I really only hate it because it’s true. 

There’s a girl I miss sometimes. I miss her long brown hair, the jokes we used to crack, the Sunday afternoons we spent watching tv shows together, and the feeling of being wanted by someone. 

Our relationship didn’t last long, a few months at most, but it was time well spent and was a bright spot in the pervasive darkness I was living with at the time. 

I haven’t talked to her much since then. We’ve each moved down our separate paths, but there have been a few moments where I think back on our time together and I miss her. 

I yearn for that connection and to have her back in my life, but I also know that we’re different people now. There were reasons our time together didn’t last. 

And that’s why part of me hates that expression. 

Because once again I’m left feeling that ache I felt after we first broke up. I’m reminded of the sadness and loneliness I felt. 

It’s loud in the fireworks, the music, the cheers and cries that the hellish year known as 2020 has finally ended. It is cause for celebration because although we carry much baggage on our shoulders as we walk our new path, it is the chance to turn things around. It is a chance to lighten the load so that by the end of this next year, we are standing tall, heads turned towards the sky, and feeling the sunshine warm our faces and reflect our smiles. 

But, for many, the new year was quiet. It was the end of a mournful time. A time filled with death and darkness, loneliness and struggle. Instead of shouting our victory, we breathed a sigh of relief. We shed some tears for those that were lost, the opportunities that were lost, and the hope that was lost. 

I wake up and think

I just have to get through

the next thing

the next class

the next assignment and then

I’ll have time to relax and

be myself and

enjoy what I’m doing

or maybe rest and sleep.

But my thoughts are

always turned forward to

what’s coming and what’s next

it never seems that I

actually reach my

destination.

So what am I

doing when it

doesn’t feel like I’m living but

I struggle with connection. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I try to make it work.

But times come where I don’t always bridge the gap in person so instead I turn my attention to my work instead.

I throw myself into it. All of myself into what I produce.

I seek connection and praise based on what I create, but when my work doesn’t make that

I am the odd one out in this friendship.

I am the third wheel, the interloper, the one who doesn’t belong.

I can feel the empty spaces that exist when I eavesdrop on our conversations.

And if I walk away for even I moment I know I’ll be forgotten.

Because it’s so easy to forget the one who leaves no impact and has no room.

So whichever is first, my disappearance or being forgotten, I can only hope this little note will be seen by someone.

The days when it seems I’m surrounded by people are the easy ones.

The hard days come when it looks like everyone is walking ahead of me.

I’m left behind and stuck with my thoughts, struggling to move on and keep my head up.

I think it would be better to just stop and let things be.

That was deep. The worst and saddest part is that's it's true

People always talk about

loving your parents because

they were the ones who

raised you.

But what about the

parents who don’t

care for their children

like they should?

You’re still expected to be

the good child who

would do anything for their

parents.

Take care of them if

they’re sick or when

they’re to old to

live on their own.

Show them the love

that they’re supposed to

deserve because they

raised and provided

for you.

Things go around like

reblog or

retweet or

share if

you would take a

bullet for you mother.

But what if your

mother is the one who

is pulling the

Sometimes I think

it would be better

to just

disappear.

  I often think

about getting into the

front seat of my

little red car and

driving away.

 I wouldn’t have to look back and

maybe, just maybe

all of the not-feelings would go away.

 I could be free to be me

and not have to worry

about what people think.

 I could be shrouded in happiness

and turn my face to the sun.

Embrace everything of life

and live like it’s all going right

so I don’t feel the

not-feeling again.

 But I stop and I stay

and force myself to

keep going even if it

means not-feeling

like I belong.

 Because what if running

doesn’t make me feel anything

and I’m just faced with

staying the same.

 I don’t think I

could ever handle the

kind of disappointment

of not-feeling like I belong

where I thought I would.

 So I stay put and

sometimes I’m lucky and the

not-feeling dulls until it’s quiet

or barely a whisper.

 I can pretend that

everything’s right and

everyone sees me

for who I am.

 But I still wonder

if the day will come when

I can’t take the not-feeling anymore

and decide it’s better to

Asexual.

My letter ‘A’ is

a source of pride

close to my heart.

  It’s like a

reverse scarlet letter

meant to show I

don’t think of sex

instead of being shamed for it.

 You would think

people wouldn’t be

confused over someone

not wanting to do it

when so much of the world

tells teenagers

not to do it.

 Not just teenagers but

adults, too.

Wait until marriage

they say and

once that ring is on

your finger, you can’t have

sex with anyone else.

 But only if you’re heterosexual.

Then if you’re not

it’s wrong and you

shouldn’t be doing it.

 So you would think that

not having sex at all

would be okay

because I’m not married.

 But it’s not.

 “Weird” they say.

Or call me broken.

Question my hormones,

because I don’t experience

sexual attraction.

 You’re supposed to want sex

even when you can’t have it.

 I’m attacked on all sides and

accused of going against human nature

by a heteronormative culture and a

group who’s long had their

sexuality policed,

ignored,

demonized,

and hated.

  It’s sometimes a struggle to

find acceptance and

I listen to the way

you talk when

I’m not in the room.

  There’s no

empty space where

my voice might

fit in.

 The two of you are

such a good fit that

it seems there’s

nothing holding me there.

 I see the things you

do when I’m not around.

The endless concerts and

trips to get food.

The inside jokes and

conversations which

span days and weeks and months.

The pictures and tweets that

go back and forth all day,

rip me from my

place in the story.

 I have no hope of

trying to force myself in.

I’m feeling myself drift

farther and farther away.

  So what else can it mean but

to let myself go and

give you the space to

be the best of friends alone.

 I try to think of

what I can do to

bring myself back

to both of you.

 But once I think I

find the answer,

I’m once again left

hearing how you talk