Ways We've Never Loved

DYANNE

“You wouldn't know that,” my mom's snicker finally gets to me. I stand with a start as I slam the spoon against the expensive set of chinaware that I used to plate my dinner. I can see the slight crack on the side, but my anger doesn't let me linger on it.

“You always find a way to pin everything on me!“ I exclaim, raising my hands in exasperation as the words tumble out of my lips.

Surprise flickers in her eyes for a moment as she arches her perfectly carved-out brows.

“Are you talking back at me right now?!“

My confidence falters a bit as I realize what I just did. It's my mother, after all. I never talk back to her, no matter how much I disagree with her opinion.

An apology lingers at the tip of my tongue, but I don't let it fall out; instead, I fall quiet.

She shakes her head as she continues, her voice a little higher now. And harsher.

“If it wasn't you insisting, your father would be here now!“

There she goes, reminding me again, making me more miserable.

My gaze unintentionally falls to the chair Dad would always sit in at dinner, and I don't realize it until I feel tears roll down my cheeks.

Two months and I am yet to heal from it. Maybe I would have if I didn't have my mom shoving that it was my fault he died down my throat.

“If you hadn't forced him to take you with him—” She starts to speak again, but I have had enough.

“Why do you care now? You fought with him every day, every single hour you were together, and yelled about how much you wanted to leave!“

“What?“ Her eyes narrow, but I don't back down.

Deep down, I know I'm probably at fault, and it feels miserable to think that if I hadn't convinced him to give me a ride that night, he'd be here with us, but she doesn't have to act like a saint and pretend they were on good terms before he died.

I laugh, but nothing about the sound is refreshing; instead, rage drips off my voice.

“I know you feel so fucking miserable and guilty that you were such a bad person, so you try to pin everything on me!“

“You fought with him till he died; isn't it petty to turn your anger to me now?“

I don't see it coming when my mom reaches for me and smacks her hands across my face. Once, twice—hard enough to tilt it back and forth. Hard enough to cause a ringing sensation in my ears.

My eyes burn with tears as I feel my throat dry up.

“Don't fucking talk to me that way!“ She seethes. I can't see her, but I can just rightly feel the rage emanating from her, so much that it's pinning me down, crushing me hard.

I feel my balance falter for a brief moment.

I resist the urge to let the words I've been holding back spill out, to let her know that I was just as angry as she was, that I was grieving my dad too, that I deserved to, but I don't say any of that.

I don't argue. I ignore the glare she throws my way as I brush past her or the words she yells as I climb the stairs heading to my room.

My head is spinning, my body is shaking with rage, but rooted deep down somewhere in my chest, guilt lies there.

As I fall into bed, my head is reeling with possibilities of what would have happened that night if I hadn't insisted on being a spoiled brat—like my mom famously says.

Like I always do whenever my parents argue, I pick up my headphones and put them on, turning the music up to the highest volume, hoping that will drown out the loud voice of my mother as she lashes out at someone over the phone—about me—and although they do, her words earlier continue to ring in my ears.

Suddenly the upbeat music stops playing, and my ringtone fills the speaker instead. I reach for my phone, prepared to end the call, when I see the name on the screen.

I listen to the call ring until it stops and a text appears on the screen.

(Alex: Are you okay?)

I wipe my tears with the hem of my top so I can see clearly.

I sniff in, trying to act composed as though he can see me, before I click on the reply box.

I can still hear Mom's huffing and puffing as I begin to type a reply.

(I'm not. I feel so suffocated and miserable; Mom won't stop saying how much it's all my fault, and that's the last thing I need. It's so bad that it feels like I should have died in the accident. I shouldn't have survived. Maybe Mom would be able to move on if she didn't have to see my face every day.)

I don't realize how much I'm crying until a teardrop slides down onto my phone.

I take my lower lip, tasting the saltiness of my tears.

My hand hovers above the send button, but I don't click it; instead, I delete everything and resume the music without replying to the text.

A night later…

“What … what do you mean you're leaving?“ Alex's voice cracks as soon as he registers what I say to him. I clench my fists, keeping them by my sides. His dark grey eyes are on mine, searching for something I know I can't give.

I shut my eyes. Tears slide down in response.

I can’t do this. Can’t look him in the eye while hurting him this much. I want to laugh and call it a joke. I know it isn't. I'm leaving; I need to. Maybe it would bring me back to normal; maybe I won't feel so numb if I leave the place that keeps reminding me of Dad.

“I'm leaving here to stay with my aunt in Toronto,” I finally say as I meet his gaze again.

His face shifts—just slightly, but the hurt lingers like a bruise.

Aren't I such a bitch?

“I just thought you needed to know,” I add quietly. He doesn't speak; I take that as my cue to leave immediately, before my resolve breaks, before he can see that I want to do anything but leave. I have just taken a step away when I feel a warm, slender hand wrap around my wrist. He turns me around to face him before I can protest.

I hold my fingers from reaching out to wipe his tears. I hate that I am the reason he is in so much pain. I hate that I'm the one to break our promises, but what can I even do? I'm the one who's broken into pieces already; I don't want it to affect him. That's why I didn't argue when my mom said she wanted me to leave.

“Is this about what I said the other day? Is—”

“It's not about you, Alex,” The words come out harsher than I intend.

Still, I shake my head and don't correct my tone or apologize. It's for the better anyway.

“Is—”

“It's a decision I made. For me, for you. For everyone. It's good for both of us.“ I add firmly while wiping my tears.

He cups my cheeks, startling me for a second. As he pulls me closer, I have the sudden urge to wrap my hands around him and tell him how exhausted I am, but I don't. I can't.

“I don't mind long distance. I can wait for as long as you want to take; don't let us break up.”

Then his voice lowers, almost so quiet that if I were a little farther away, I wouldn't hear it.

“I'm begging you, Dyanne,” I can hear the vulnerability in them. For a second I almost break.

“What if I never come back?“ I whisper in reply, hot tears streaming down my face.

He smiles lightly, even though he has tears running down his face.

“I'll come to you,”

No. He's too good for me. I don't deserve him at all. He doesn't deserve a coward like me who is willing to run away at any slight inconvenience.

“I can't let you leave your whole life behind for someone like me,”

I raise my hand to pull away his hand from my face. I have a lot of things to say—tell him not to resent me too much, to find someone who won't give up without a fight, and to find someone who isn't a coward.

“I'm sorry,” I whisper and turn away, walking towards the door.

I try my best to pull the doorknob open despite my unsteady fingers, and when I walk in, I close the door, turning the keys in.

I breathe in shakily as my hands reach for my pocket, and I pull out my phone to read the new text.

( Have you thought about what I asked of you? It's the best for Alex. For both of you. )

I grip my phone tightly, as I slide to the floor, throwing my head over my hunched knees and bursting into fresh tears.