Said & Done |
Issue 10
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This love kept my heart warm. And then it burned me alive when he walked away.
But at least we burned together. ...
I had been a ghost of my former self for who knows how many summers and winters. My demeanor was so muted, a younger me would not have recognized me. Either that, or she would be secondhand embarrassed that I failed two classes last semester and couldn’t bring myself out of bed to meet the full potential that everyone said I had. I fell back into old habits of criticizing myself every time I looked in the mirror.
You gotta go on a sugar detox, your skin is breaking out. You know that everyone who sees you knows you are a failure. You are always going to feel this way. Avoiding my reflection in passing mirrors and metal spoons only made me feel more invisible. ...
The day we met could be considered boring and uneventful. I remember that it was dreary. Not because it was Valentine’s Day and I was single, but because it had been raining and snowing all week.
I saved my remaining elective for my second to last semester as a senior, I was majoring in finance. The structure of the course revolved around a heavily graded, semester-long group project where we were randomly put into groups of four or five. This elective traditionally consisted of sophomores and juniors, that is why two of my group members were two years younger than me. I believe Gene was an engineering major and Cheryl was a chemistry major. That leaves the fourth member of the group. Before this project, I viewed him as this tall stranger in the sea of strangers I would ignore because of my aversion to socializing. He and I were the only seniors. He was also the only art history major I ever knew. A good artist should highlight various aspects of him when composing his portrait. His hair is naturally slicked back, his wardrobe consists of earthy tones, and his eye color is a brilliant shade of light green - almost reminiscent of a pebble found on a beach. And any viewer of the work would take note of the sharpness in his bone structure, especially in his cheekbones and jawline. However, there is one thing that no one will ever know since it stayed between him and I. He was 20 minutes late for a group meeting and offered an excuse and an apology. We did our group work for an hour before Gene and Cheryl had to embark on their next class, which left him and I alone. I gathered all my highlighters while he simply remained seated. I asked him if everything was alright since he seemed down throughout the group meeting. He pondered over how to reply, but ultimately told me what really happened on the way over here. While the campus did clean up all the major pathways from the snowfall from two days ago, they did not clear the snowbank outside of this building. By some winter wonderland miracle, he slipped and fell on a snow patch, butt-first. Yep, that’s what did it for me. Perhaps it was the imagery of him like a fallen baby animal learning to walk that embedded a core memory in me or his defeated, self-deprecating tone in his story that made me smile. I advised him to wrap his jacket around his waist and promised that his fall from grace would stay between us. But that was how it started. |
Leslie Soriente is a college student in Virginia. She is double majoring in accounting and creative writing. While she has no works currently published, she primarily prefers to write fiction or mystery. She is also known to dabble in poetry and nonfiction. She also likes to knit hats for charity
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...
He and I fell into this workplace chemistry. With Cheryl outright not doing her share of the work, I took it upon myself to complete it before the group’s weekly deadlines. He offered to help when I texted that I would just do it. I have a knee-jerk reaction to just do things myself, but I ultimately gave in when he said please.
That is why he and I FaceTimed so often at night. What really cemented things for me was when my sea of stress and the late hour loopiness would cause me to babble and he would meet me with a straightforward, simple solution.
“I don’t understand why she isn’t doing her share. I’m pretty sure I’m not making this up, right? Am I doing something wrong? Am I being unreasonable? Am I the problem?”
“No, you are entitled to feeling stressed out, you are doing her work. You really need to set this boundary.”
And I always appreciated that he was never condescending and had never talked down to me. I give him problems and he is quick to hand me the solution to them.
I fret. I worry. I find more problems to stress over that only bring me closer to the edge.
But then he can easily pull me away. He defuses the bomb before it detonates.
I didn’t realize how easy it was to fall into this back-and-forth because instead of a fiery argument, it was more like swimming laps in a pool. We were not clashing opposites nor were we twin flames; I believe we were an even mix of the two. And that was when I realized what it meant to be compatible with someone.
Our seamless back-and-forth flowed naturally into personal discussion. When one of us is finished with the work, the other stays on FaceTime until the work is completely done. That is how I learned he got waitlisted for this master’s degree program he really wanted and how he discovered how much I hate the degree I am nearly finished with.
“Why don’t you just minor in literature? You’re always talking about the obscure foreign books you’re reading.”
I glanced at the clock that read 3:12 AM. “Because that is at least a year’s worth of coursework, and I don’t think I have it in me anymore.”
“To read?”
To live.
I saw him rub his eyes before he said, “Well, I know what you’re like when you set your mind on it. If I had to bet on anyone to get it done, it would be you.”
That has stayed with me. Long after I bid him goodnight and fell asleep.
That is why he and I FaceTimed so often at night. What really cemented things for me was when my sea of stress and the late hour loopiness would cause me to babble and he would meet me with a straightforward, simple solution.
“I don’t understand why she isn’t doing her share. I’m pretty sure I’m not making this up, right? Am I doing something wrong? Am I being unreasonable? Am I the problem?”
“No, you are entitled to feeling stressed out, you are doing her work. You really need to set this boundary.”
And I always appreciated that he was never condescending and had never talked down to me. I give him problems and he is quick to hand me the solution to them.
I fret. I worry. I find more problems to stress over that only bring me closer to the edge.
But then he can easily pull me away. He defuses the bomb before it detonates.
I didn’t realize how easy it was to fall into this back-and-forth because instead of a fiery argument, it was more like swimming laps in a pool. We were not clashing opposites nor were we twin flames; I believe we were an even mix of the two. And that was when I realized what it meant to be compatible with someone.
Our seamless back-and-forth flowed naturally into personal discussion. When one of us is finished with the work, the other stays on FaceTime until the work is completely done. That is how I learned he got waitlisted for this master’s degree program he really wanted and how he discovered how much I hate the degree I am nearly finished with.
“Why don’t you just minor in literature? You’re always talking about the obscure foreign books you’re reading.”
I glanced at the clock that read 3:12 AM. “Because that is at least a year’s worth of coursework, and I don’t think I have it in me anymore.”
“To read?”
To live.
I saw him rub his eyes before he said, “Well, I know what you’re like when you set your mind on it. If I had to bet on anyone to get it done, it would be you.”
That has stayed with me. Long after I bid him goodnight and fell asleep.
...
As an abysmal winter transformed into a heat-heavy spring, things with him and I only ramped up. And if you told me that he could make the grass grow, I would have believed you.
We handed in the final report for the group project and he and I took the elevator down together.
“I applied for a literature minor, by the way.”
“Really?”
I leaned back against the wall and looked at the number shifting from three to two. “Yeah, I get my response back by the end of summer.”
And as if he could feel the stress wrinkle forming in my brain, he said, “Don’t worry. I know you’ll get in.”
“My finance grades are a bit crappy, remember? That’s why I am retaking another semester of finance work.”
“Who could ever say no to you, though?”
That caught me off guard. Was that some sort of sign he felt the same or was that just a way of telling me I’m annoying? My breath caught in my throat. I struggled to figure out what I wanted to say. How could I avoid blurting out something stupid, like, ‘Will you marry me’?
The elevator doors dinged open, and he exited. Moment gone forever.
I began to cast out any fantasy until he popped back into frame and said, “Hey, my last final is on Friday. And then I got graduation on Sunday.”
I waited for him to finish the rest of his statement and stared blankly at him for a few moments. “Congratulations?”
“You wanna go do something on Monday?”
If he was like a fallen baby fawn, I was a deer caught in headlights. But I was able to whisper, “Ok.”
“Great. Still got your number.”
He walked away and I remained frozen as the elevator doors shut, contemplating whether any of that was still part of my fantasy.
We handed in the final report for the group project and he and I took the elevator down together.
“I applied for a literature minor, by the way.”
“Really?”
I leaned back against the wall and looked at the number shifting from three to two. “Yeah, I get my response back by the end of summer.”
And as if he could feel the stress wrinkle forming in my brain, he said, “Don’t worry. I know you’ll get in.”
“My finance grades are a bit crappy, remember? That’s why I am retaking another semester of finance work.”
“Who could ever say no to you, though?”
That caught me off guard. Was that some sort of sign he felt the same or was that just a way of telling me I’m annoying? My breath caught in my throat. I struggled to figure out what I wanted to say. How could I avoid blurting out something stupid, like, ‘Will you marry me’?
The elevator doors dinged open, and he exited. Moment gone forever.
I began to cast out any fantasy until he popped back into frame and said, “Hey, my last final is on Friday. And then I got graduation on Sunday.”
I waited for him to finish the rest of his statement and stared blankly at him for a few moments. “Congratulations?”
“You wanna go do something on Monday?”
If he was like a fallen baby fawn, I was a deer caught in headlights. But I was able to whisper, “Ok.”
“Great. Still got your number.”
He walked away and I remained frozen as the elevator doors shut, contemplating whether any of that was still part of my fantasy.
...
Since he got to pick the venue and wanted to surprise me, I got to choose the music on the drive over there.
“What- is this Taylor Swift as well?”
“I told you. She goes through many genres. Her artistry knows no bounds. You would know that if you had more female artists in your library.”
He grew to prefer her country era and all her sad songs.
As he sang terribly and loudly to ‘Mine’ out his open window, my laughter caught in my throat when I saw myself in the passenger visor’s vanity mirror.
I was smiling.
“What- is this Taylor Swift as well?”
“I told you. She goes through many genres. Her artistry knows no bounds. You would know that if you had more female artists in your library.”
He grew to prefer her country era and all her sad songs.
As he sang terribly and loudly to ‘Mine’ out his open window, my laughter caught in my throat when I saw myself in the passenger visor’s vanity mirror.
I was smiling.
...
He opened my passenger door for me and asked, “So which one was your favorite?”
We walked through the whole art museum, and he rattled off facts from the time period each work was from.
I had remarked, “You’re really putting that degree to good use, aren’t you?” But I only remember admiring him instead of fully listening. The cadence of his voice and him gently guiding me by the hand had me transfixed the entire time. I had never seen anyone speak with such reverence. I was completely enamored with this buzzing feeling, now realizing it has only been around since I’d known him.
Was this what joy felt like?
“The one with the daisies.” I only remembered it because the shade of green matched his eye color perfectly.
We were stopped at a red light when Spotify transitioned to a commercial.
“Hope I didn’t bore you.”
I shook my head and glanced over at him. He was looking at me instead of the light. “No, you could never.”
He parked outside of my place, and I remained seated, not sure of what to do or say so as not to ruin anything. I completely forgot how normal people go about things.
Luckily, he didn’t.
“One last thing.”
And that was the first time we kissed.
We walked through the whole art museum, and he rattled off facts from the time period each work was from.
I had remarked, “You’re really putting that degree to good use, aren’t you?” But I only remember admiring him instead of fully listening. The cadence of his voice and him gently guiding me by the hand had me transfixed the entire time. I had never seen anyone speak with such reverence. I was completely enamored with this buzzing feeling, now realizing it has only been around since I’d known him.
Was this what joy felt like?
“The one with the daisies.” I only remembered it because the shade of green matched his eye color perfectly.
We were stopped at a red light when Spotify transitioned to a commercial.
“Hope I didn’t bore you.”
I shook my head and glanced over at him. He was looking at me instead of the light. “No, you could never.”
He parked outside of my place, and I remained seated, not sure of what to do or say so as not to ruin anything. I completely forgot how normal people go about things.
Luckily, he didn’t.
“One last thing.”
And that was the first time we kissed.
...
I found myself spending more time at his place. The first time I went over, I was surprised to see so many books I read on his nightstand.
“I take your recommendations as seriously as you take book to movie adaptations.”
When we weren’t watching book to movie adaptations at his place where I would knit in between watching and pointing accusingly at the screen to say, “That didn’t happen in the book,” we were playing Scrabble.
Actually, he was playing Scrabble. I was winning.
He never whined or complained, he was impressed when I pulled out words like ‘euphoria’ and ‘denouement’.
One day, when I went over to his place and knocked on the door, I heard him loudly cussing and race over to answer.
Out of breath, he said, “Hey, you’re early!”
“Yeah, uh, do I smell smoke?”
We went back in, and I fanned the air to prevent the oven’s smoke from setting off the smoke alarms. Using dish cloths as oven mitts, he took a hardened, chocolate flat dessert from the oven and quickly threw it onto the counter.
“What…is it?”
“Happy birthday?”
He really hated sugar. He didn’t eat candy or any kind of pastry, choosing protein and sustenance over joy. I told him as such and called him a psychopath.
“How did you even know?”
“I glanced at your license when you got carded by the waiter last month. I’m so sorry. We can just get another one.”
I took his hand in mine and said, “Nonsense, I love brownie brittle!”
“It was supposed to be a cake.”
“Oh.” I poked at it. “It’s ok. I love it! And you.” I looked away from him and whispered, “I do, y’know.”
I felt him kiss the top of my head before he said, “No fair. I was supposed to say it first. As a second birthday gift.”
He hugged me from behind as I plated two slices for us, repeating ‘I love yous’ in my ear the whole time. The cake did in fact taste like plastic.
I remember thinking, This must be what it is to love someone like a house on fire.
This was the beginning of the end.
“I take your recommendations as seriously as you take book to movie adaptations.”
When we weren’t watching book to movie adaptations at his place where I would knit in between watching and pointing accusingly at the screen to say, “That didn’t happen in the book,” we were playing Scrabble.
Actually, he was playing Scrabble. I was winning.
He never whined or complained, he was impressed when I pulled out words like ‘euphoria’ and ‘denouement’.
One day, when I went over to his place and knocked on the door, I heard him loudly cussing and race over to answer.
Out of breath, he said, “Hey, you’re early!”
“Yeah, uh, do I smell smoke?”
We went back in, and I fanned the air to prevent the oven’s smoke from setting off the smoke alarms. Using dish cloths as oven mitts, he took a hardened, chocolate flat dessert from the oven and quickly threw it onto the counter.
“What…is it?”
“Happy birthday?”
He really hated sugar. He didn’t eat candy or any kind of pastry, choosing protein and sustenance over joy. I told him as such and called him a psychopath.
“How did you even know?”
“I glanced at your license when you got carded by the waiter last month. I’m so sorry. We can just get another one.”
I took his hand in mine and said, “Nonsense, I love brownie brittle!”
“It was supposed to be a cake.”
“Oh.” I poked at it. “It’s ok. I love it! And you.” I looked away from him and whispered, “I do, y’know.”
I felt him kiss the top of my head before he said, “No fair. I was supposed to say it first. As a second birthday gift.”
He hugged me from behind as I plated two slices for us, repeating ‘I love yous’ in my ear the whole time. The cake did in fact taste like plastic.
I remember thinking, This must be what it is to love someone like a house on fire.
This was the beginning of the end.
...
Nothing changed for the weeks after that until he just stopped texting me. No contact for three whole days.
It was radio silence from him until: Can you come over?
Old habits refuse to die, given that I spent the drive over thinking of every awful scenario.
He must be sick and dying.
He is asking me to help get rid of a body.
He got drafted.
Then he answered the door without a word.
I peppered him with questions as he silently led me to his room. My words and my movement halted when I saw multiple cardboard boxes being halfway filled. “Are you moving?”
“Remember that master’s program I got waitlisted for? Someone dropped out. I got in.”
I embraced him fully and cheered. “Wait, why aren’t you ecstatic? And why are you packing? We’ll be back at college together.”
“It’s in Barcelona.”
I remained standing, not sure what to say. He moved and sat on the edge of his bed, only looking down at his feet, bowing his head.
I knelt before him and rested my chin and hands on his knees, looking up at him with what joy I could muster. “I get why you didn’t tell me the location, but why are you acting like someone just died? This doesn’t have to change anything.”
He patted me before gently moving me off him. “We’re going to be thousands of miles away from each other. We’re going to be leading such different lives.”
“How different? We’re both doing academic work.”
“You’ll be here in college for a year and a half, I’ll be in Barcelona for who knows how long. I might get a curator job there once I finish my master’s. You’re staying put, I’m not.”
I tried to move closer to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t let me. “This doesn’t change anything,” I repeat. “Unless we let it.”
He shook his head, rising and finally looking at me. “No, you need to focus on school. Completely. You can’t afford to be worried about me all the time. It will just stand in the way of your success and you’re too good for that.”
“No, wait-”
“I can’t. You know we can’t.”
I genuinely can’t remember what I did next. Did I cuss him out for giving me love and taking it away? Did I sob dramatically? Or did I scream at him to give me a better goodbye than that?
I only remember sitting catatonic in my car in the parking spot outside until the sun set.
It was radio silence from him until: Can you come over?
Old habits refuse to die, given that I spent the drive over thinking of every awful scenario.
He must be sick and dying.
He is asking me to help get rid of a body.
He got drafted.
Then he answered the door without a word.
I peppered him with questions as he silently led me to his room. My words and my movement halted when I saw multiple cardboard boxes being halfway filled. “Are you moving?”
“Remember that master’s program I got waitlisted for? Someone dropped out. I got in.”
I embraced him fully and cheered. “Wait, why aren’t you ecstatic? And why are you packing? We’ll be back at college together.”
“It’s in Barcelona.”
I remained standing, not sure what to say. He moved and sat on the edge of his bed, only looking down at his feet, bowing his head.
I knelt before him and rested my chin and hands on his knees, looking up at him with what joy I could muster. “I get why you didn’t tell me the location, but why are you acting like someone just died? This doesn’t have to change anything.”
He patted me before gently moving me off him. “We’re going to be thousands of miles away from each other. We’re going to be leading such different lives.”
“How different? We’re both doing academic work.”
“You’ll be here in college for a year and a half, I’ll be in Barcelona for who knows how long. I might get a curator job there once I finish my master’s. You’re staying put, I’m not.”
I tried to move closer to meet his gaze, but he wouldn’t let me. “This doesn’t change anything,” I repeat. “Unless we let it.”
He shook his head, rising and finally looking at me. “No, you need to focus on school. Completely. You can’t afford to be worried about me all the time. It will just stand in the way of your success and you’re too good for that.”
“No, wait-”
“I can’t. You know we can’t.”
I genuinely can’t remember what I did next. Did I cuss him out for giving me love and taking it away? Did I sob dramatically? Or did I scream at him to give me a better goodbye than that?
I only remember sitting catatonic in my car in the parking spot outside until the sun set.
...
Now it was my turn to give him the silent treatment. Only until the text where he asked me to come get my stuff.
I didn’t bother coming up. I leaned against my car and forced him to come to me. He came down with a large box of my things that contained the last laundry load of mine that I did there, the numerous hair ties and scrunchies that I left around the place, my designated mug, and other pastel mementos that surely stood out in his place.
He greeted me with a nod. We didn’t exchange a single word.
As I watch him walk away from me, for what would be the last time I ever saw him, I consider just sprinting to catch up with him and wrapping myself around him. I’d tell him I would follow him anywhere, from the swamps of Florida to the constant fog of London.
And for a minute I saw a possibility of what our life could have been. Ten years later, he would come home to me and our daughter Daisy racing to greet him. I let her win, like I do every time, just so I can see him pick her up and swing her around. And I would smile at how Daisy is starting to look like him, thankful that she inherited his smile and not mine.
But in this reality, I wordlessly watch him leave. Because if he wanted this as badly as me he would have tried something to make it work, anything to keep me.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t even bother to look back at me one last time.
So, in my head, I say my goodbye to him like a widow watching the casket lower to the ground. I say goodbye to Daisy and any other beautiful possibility where he and I are together.
And so the story ends as it began: We met as strangers and walked away as strangers.
I didn’t bother coming up. I leaned against my car and forced him to come to me. He came down with a large box of my things that contained the last laundry load of mine that I did there, the numerous hair ties and scrunchies that I left around the place, my designated mug, and other pastel mementos that surely stood out in his place.
He greeted me with a nod. We didn’t exchange a single word.
As I watch him walk away from me, for what would be the last time I ever saw him, I consider just sprinting to catch up with him and wrapping myself around him. I’d tell him I would follow him anywhere, from the swamps of Florida to the constant fog of London.
And for a minute I saw a possibility of what our life could have been. Ten years later, he would come home to me and our daughter Daisy racing to greet him. I let her win, like I do every time, just so I can see him pick her up and swing her around. And I would smile at how Daisy is starting to look like him, thankful that she inherited his smile and not mine.
But in this reality, I wordlessly watch him leave. Because if he wanted this as badly as me he would have tried something to make it work, anything to keep me.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t even bother to look back at me one last time.
So, in my head, I say my goodbye to him like a widow watching the casket lower to the ground. I say goodbye to Daisy and any other beautiful possibility where he and I are together.
And so the story ends as it began: We met as strangers and walked away as strangers.
...
I always thought being abandoned would leave me more devastated. Depression had previously left me bed-ridden, turned my reality into a taxing blur while I was sober. And I genuinely thought that if he left me that the incoming depression would be what killed me.
But initially I was angry. I marched around my place, still wearing his university sweatshirt, and slammed cabinet doors when I couldn’t find the plate I was looking for. I also cussed out every quirk of his. Like how he left his shoes around for me to trip on or how he carries a vintage lighter around because his phone is always dying, and he might need a flashlight.
I still have it, by the way, tucked into his sweatshirt. But if he can take something from me, then retribution is the only solution. All’s fair in love, art, and war.
I wonder how many laundry cycles he put his bed sheets through before realizing it was the memories of me in his bed that he couldn’t get rid of. How many dark-haired women in Barcelona will he mistake for me out of the corner of his eye? I hope he will never be able to listen to a Taylor Swift song without thinking of me, that way death would be the only thing that would free him of any thought that leads back to us.
And for a while my anxiety kept me up at night. I was fearful over the fact that while he retreated from my life like a thief in a getaway car, I would recognize him anywhere. If anyone asks, I will say he was just some stranger, but I know I would perk up instantly if I heard his laugh in a crowded room. I feared I would never love or be loved by anyone else but him and that sent me spiraling.
I would catch myself being sad and throw myself into chores and assignments I have fallen behind on. He may not be here, but he will never know that he threw my focus off if it never happened to begin with.
Sometimes I remember him as a warm embrace, viewing him lovingly as if he was my dead wife at the beginning flashback of a psychological thriller. I could never bring myself to delete any photos or memories, even if they became a catalog of sad songs in my mind.
But when Christmas rolled around and it snowed six inches, I found myself feeling warm and buzzing. Maybe it was the gingerbread I pulled from the oven or my beaming pride of earning high grades in the fall semester. Or maybe it was something more.
I thought I would be more devastated. But I am surprised to find myself still standing, able to look at myself in the mirror. And this was the ending I always wanted, to not just be happy but to be happy that I exist.
But initially I was angry. I marched around my place, still wearing his university sweatshirt, and slammed cabinet doors when I couldn’t find the plate I was looking for. I also cussed out every quirk of his. Like how he left his shoes around for me to trip on or how he carries a vintage lighter around because his phone is always dying, and he might need a flashlight.
I still have it, by the way, tucked into his sweatshirt. But if he can take something from me, then retribution is the only solution. All’s fair in love, art, and war.
I wonder how many laundry cycles he put his bed sheets through before realizing it was the memories of me in his bed that he couldn’t get rid of. How many dark-haired women in Barcelona will he mistake for me out of the corner of his eye? I hope he will never be able to listen to a Taylor Swift song without thinking of me, that way death would be the only thing that would free him of any thought that leads back to us.
And for a while my anxiety kept me up at night. I was fearful over the fact that while he retreated from my life like a thief in a getaway car, I would recognize him anywhere. If anyone asks, I will say he was just some stranger, but I know I would perk up instantly if I heard his laugh in a crowded room. I feared I would never love or be loved by anyone else but him and that sent me spiraling.
I would catch myself being sad and throw myself into chores and assignments I have fallen behind on. He may not be here, but he will never know that he threw my focus off if it never happened to begin with.
Sometimes I remember him as a warm embrace, viewing him lovingly as if he was my dead wife at the beginning flashback of a psychological thriller. I could never bring myself to delete any photos or memories, even if they became a catalog of sad songs in my mind.
But when Christmas rolled around and it snowed six inches, I found myself feeling warm and buzzing. Maybe it was the gingerbread I pulled from the oven or my beaming pride of earning high grades in the fall semester. Or maybe it was something more.
I thought I would be more devastated. But I am surprised to find myself still standing, able to look at myself in the mirror. And this was the ending I always wanted, to not just be happy but to be happy that I exist.