thoughts on outgrowing
and why this is a repost...
I can’t pinpoint a change. I’ve tried: under my covers, in the car, in front of her, during one of our final conversations. I could only pinpoint a feeling. That feeling was dread. I was drunk the last time we properly spoke, for the first thirty minutes. I was sober by the end of it.
It was right after I returned to our shared room from a nighttime walk; right after a fun wine and color night with a good friend of mine. That evening, I decided everything was beautiful—it was deliciously foggy, humidity licking my clothes and face. Music was spilling from my headphones. I looked at everything with new eyes that night. The steel street lights were beautiful. My corporate dorm hall seemed wondrous and strange. I teetered as I walked, holding my bag of food heavily in one hand. Nothing could ruin this.
I do love being wine drunk.
She’s sitting on my lap, and I am splayed out on the floor. I watch her with a stupid smile. She’s snapping pictures of us, me grinning while I’m trapped beneath her. I can hear our friend’s dog barking downstairs, and our friend yelling at her mom while getting ready.
She shifts herself off of my body. I sit up. We quietly gossip; we wanted to get to the concert early, and now we’ll be late even though we’re both ready, and why is that dog so large, and should I wear a bow in my hair? We are friends with many, but always and most importantly each other. We whisper secrets and giggle in confidence. We hold hands.
She had borne her weight upon me and I had been comfortable nonetheless.
I felt a little bit ambushed when I walked through the door. I had fries and a burger in hand, ready to enjoy it, but I didn’t eat that food until around two hours later. Tension had filled the room, now overflowing. We were drenched in it—she felt tonight was the night to address this.
When we spoke, I was careful with my words, and that bothered her the most. She felt like I was being too cautious. I felt as though I was being thoughtful. I spoke over her at times. She pondered silently to herself, in a way where her brows would wrinkle and she’d look up somewhere, just diagonal to my head.
I was incredibly honest for one of the first times in our friendship. I was incredibly honest in saying that friendship has changed.
She weaved through people, my hand in hers. I watched the purple cape blow with our movement, attached to the back of her costume. She commanded gazes, and I simply followed. I watched people greet her, regard me, and continue speaking with her. They smelled like alcohol. Soon, I let go and began trying my own way around. In the end, I was right back next to her again. Loud music rang in my ears, and all I could see was purple.
She knew what I was saying without me birthing the words myself: we weren’t best friends anymore. I checked out a while ago, and she’d been left in the dust of it. That was wrong of me. I reflected a while after I noticed the change. Maybe I had watered myself down to make room for the space she took up, when we first met. To me, she shone. She loomed, almost. I knew and understood her. I also looked up to her; she had such a solid foundation of self. Those two thoughts—friendship and some other, stranger thing swelling in me—coexisted most of the time. And, eventually, when I allowed myself comfort and no longer subdued my opinions and personality, we clashed. We often thought the other wrong, blatantly so. And it was eating me up inside. Resentment festered like rot when we didn’t align. Anxiety festered.
“Sometimes, I think you’re slow”
I look up from the post I was being shown. It had taken me a beat longer to read it than it should’ve. I laughed, but it was breathy and my brows knitted together. I felt a familiar tightness in my chest.
I straighten up and shrug at the phone in my face. “Sorry.”
I think moving in with her sped up our timeline. That’s evil to say, I know. But becoming roommates was a huge aspect of the end of us. We were somewhat destined to fail, and whatever differences in lifestyles we had bred crackling annoyance.
She was messy, and I was particular. She slept in and stayed out late, while I was trying to be responsible with my schedule. It was difficult to decide what was hanging out and what was just existing in the same space. We felt more like roommates, and bad ones at that.
We’re facing each other, our heads on our respective pillows. The room is dark beside the screen lights on each of our faces. She says something and sends me a TikTok between laughs. I start laughing so hard I have to get up and go to the bathroom.
At some point, I lost interest in whatever she had to show me. We stopped turning over and saying goodnight. She began coming in after I had already fallen asleep.
After I say all of this, she walks out. Two weeks later, she’s moved out. Another week later and I let go of another friend. I wonder if this is to make room for better things, or if maybe god has rewired life for me. Or maybe I’m a bad friend. I don’t think I am.
“You don’t tell me anything anymore.”
I hadn’t wanted to.
Some poetry from this era of my life. I don’t even know what it means, and neither do you. My poetry tends to read like a bad trip from the notes app, and a culmination of nonsensical feelings.
tucked beneath lavender scent and warm pink, blankets skin bone-deep she shudders and... i'm not sure how she got there
did she tuck herself in? her hair clumps, small animals in the mane of pillows, fingers knuckle-curled, unfurled, dark lashes over bent eyelids
he is a blurry ball, on a spent floor wailing woes and whistles does the silent uptick of the lip mean she knew who finality would bring?
hi to my zero subscribers at the moment! i deleted my old blog in a moment of sheer panic but i decided that was a strange choice to make considering i was monopolizing the industry with my whole SEVEN subscribers.
and if the reason for that panic is reading this blog right now, hi! so glad you’re a fan.
i write what i know. it is how, ultimately and hopefully, i find my voice. what i know at the moment is this. what i wrote about. and hardly anyone reads this, at least not at the moment (someday, maybe!). i leave no identifying factors in this short story, nor do i speak ill. this is just true to me.
i want this to apply to all my writing, that honesty. i won’t be shamed into hiding that writing, no matter how bad or messy or typo-filled it may be. if you are capable of literacy, i urge you to write as well—to work through feelings, to critique your processes, whatever. maybe it’ll make you feel better. maybe you’ll become famous.
some housekeeping. each month, i post a newsletter of recommendations, thoughts, and ponderings. i will first be posting the first one i had posted on my original blog (maybe), which will act as volume 1 (maybe). skipping february, i will post a march newsletter at the end of this month. in between, hopefully, i will write some short thoughts and essays.
that’s all. thank you for reading, and i’ll see you soon.
xxx,
emily.