closure.

words by Elle Janchivdorj, art by Riese Carlson

Saturday, April 8th.

I fell asleep on the bus again, and when I woke up I found myself standing outside Iris’s her house. Right outside that house, on the corner of the next block, was the last stop of the night.

The lights were still on. I saw silhouettes of happy people and heard the faint sound of laughter. I didn't belong there.

Lost, I looked around at the empty street. There was nothing but darkness all around, my surroundings awash with the stark yellow light of street lamps. Rainwater puddles on the sidewalk and in the potholes of the road behind me. That wet smell of earth. The bus wouldn’t be coming until the morning. I’d have to walk back home.

With every moment I spent standing uncertainly on that sidewalk, the bag hanging limply from my hand grew heavier and heavier. I felt naked standing here like this. My skin crawled as if my soul was trying to claw its way out of my body. I didn’t know where it would go. Home, maybe. I could lock myself up in my room forever. That seemed like a better option than standing out here.

Ominous flashes of light—purple streaks of lightning—tore into the night sky. Distant rolls of thunder hung in the air and echoed in my head. Shelter. I needed to find one soon.

The front door opened, and someone poked their head out to check on the weather. It was her. I’m paralyzed as her gaze sweeps over where I’m standing.

I can’t walk in, I thought, not any more.

I pulled my bag up to my chest and hugged it tightly. When she finally moved to close the door, I ran.

Sunday, April 9th.

Today, I was lying on my bed. Staring at the ceiling of my room in complete silence, thinking of nothing in particular. Once in a while, I heard Daisy laughing in the next room.

Her best friend came over today. For some reason, I felt jealous of her. I know I shouldn’t be; we are sisters. But she has something I don’t; rather, something I lost. My relationship with Iris my best friend ended suddenly. No warning. No explanation.

I never imagined a life without her in it. But here I was anyway, living through one. No, living would be a generous word, I think. I feel like a shell these days. Like there’s a hole in my chest—an open wound. The kind that stings when the wind blows through it, the kind that refuses to heal, getting bigger with time instead of healing. I have yet to lose blood but I think I lost a part of who I was before.

It isn’t that I want things to go back to the way they were. I know that’s never going to happen. In the years we spent apart, we changed. But sometimes, I get desperate for answers, restless with questions that I crave to ask but never do.

Every time, I end up curled on the floor, sick with dread. I know, deep down, that it was because I wasn’t good enough. And I hated myself for getting my hopes up.

The thing is, I find myself going back to her house often. I don’t know why I do it. Sometimes, it’s a simple accident. Other times I seek it out, just to hide in the trees and watch—just for a moment—snippets of her daily life. It’s hypocritical of me, to be so fixated on her as if she abandoned me. No, it wasn’t her. I was the one who walked away first. Would anything she did have made me look back? I don’t think so—I chose this misery. And yet, a part of me still refuses to accept that it’s over.

I close my eyes. I’m tired, worn-out down to my bones. It’s as if my body is a fossil encased in a solid block of ice. Frozen in time and out of place. I don’t belong here.

The only evidence of my living is the ache in my heart.

Saturday, April 15th.

Today is Iris’s her birthday, the first one since we stopped talking. It feels weird. We used to celebrate together every year since we were in elementary school. On her birthday last year, she seemed upset at me. I thought my apology cleared things up between us, but I was wrong. I decided to write a short note and leave it outside, because I couldn’t bring myself to give it to her directly.

I tried, I really did. But when I walked up to the porch, I caught a glimpse of people celebrating. I saw friends we used to share and people I’ve never met, gathered around the kitchen table. In the corner, someone was busy playing with her dog, and her parents were talking at the foot of the stairs. It was like I went back in time, as if I would find myself laughing with everyone else in that same room. 

I placed the note on the doormat and left. On the way home, I thought it might be time to finally stop going back to that house.

Is it stupid of me to hope that she replies?