Sometimes I am just. so. stupid.
I fired up the ancient Samsung phone with the intent of harvesting the contact info for Trinity people I’m hoping to see over the course of the next few days. My intentions were to dive straight for the phonebook, to entirely eschew the backlog of received messages…and yet… I couldn’t help myself. Okay. If I’m to be honest, I suppose I should admit that I didn’t even try that hard to block out the siren song of a dead romance.
Interspersed with messages from Katie, from Marisa, from Thea, there were a string of them–the things I “did not” want to see; but, just like me, I opened them and I read them–each and every one. They ranged from the more overt “I love you, Smalls” and “Happy Birthday, Small one!” and “Can’t wait to see you tonight, either. Muah,” to those which were then and shall always remain mysterious. “Mission accomplished. Expect results in o-100 hours.” “You wouldn’t believe it even if I took a picture” and “Thanks for putting up with me, Bean. You’re the best. xoxo” I don’t remember what that mission was now, and I have no idea what the results might have been or if I ever received them. What it was that I wouldn’t believe even if presented with photographic evidence I couldn’t tell you. I cannot remember what he did wrong that warranted that last message, but I’m sure I forgave him, and I’m sure that it didn’t matter in the long run, and I’m sure I still wanted him to kiss me good night. All I know now is that I miss the boy who renamed me Smalls (regardless of how much I hated it at first) and Baby Bee and called me every night and knew how to hold me like nobody else ever has.
He had all of my heart and he’s seen everything I am. He’s the only one, in fact, who ever has. He’s the only one who ever wanted to shoulder some of my sadness. He’s the only one who I ever trusted with so much of me. Not because of ego, but because of how stridently he proclaimed his affections, I still can’t believe he threw it–threw me–away. I still can’t believe that he probably doesn’t think it was a mistake.
I don’t know how I feel about going to campus now. I’m not sure I can without seeing specters of a wraith-thin boy in a horrible winter coat grinning as he lopes toward me. Of course, All-Hallows Eve is the ideal date for a haunting. I suppose there’s nothing for it but to go, to be brave, and to confront my ghosts.