This was certainly not the first time she’d wished that she could just start something over. For her, that urge was nearly chronic. And today she could not stop wondering what would happen if she could take it all back. Swallow her words and do it all over again. Maybe, if she had only gone down to breakfast a little later, or if she had just responded differently, had spoken to soothe instead of to wound, they wouldn’t be so mad. Maybe things wouldn’t have ended. And maybe she wouldn’t be hiding in the bathroom, hearing their footsteps as they dismantled a shared life. Knowing them, there wouldn’t be a single loose sock left behind. No chance to just stop by—wherever their new place would be—no reason for them to swing by later to pick up one last box.
Their reaction had been the worst part. Their laugh was a distorted, sneering version of a familiar sound. They had flinched away from her touch and cowered at the sound of her voice. You know, I knew you would react like this, they had said. They sounded like they were reading from a script. She wondered if they had contemplated the end while curled up beside her in bed. What had she said in these hypotheticals? What words had they placed in her mouth? Had she screamed or yelled, like in the real world? Would it be better if this alternate version of her, only found in the folds of their mind, was crueler or kinder than the real her? Rubbing her throat, she wondered how long the hoarseness plaguing her would last.
This was a she that had not gone to breakfast, a she that had lived a life now lost.
She heard shuffling outside the bathroom door and sprang to her feet, but when she opened it, she didn’t see them or the cat. Instead, she saw herself in the doorway, a flickering image clad in the morning’s pajamas, frozen but clearly angled toward the stairs. Though she could see the bookshelf at the end of the hall through its form, the vision was more put-together than she was—hair still braided and soft from sleep, glasses still on instead of cast aside on the bathroom floor. This was a she that had not gone to breakfast, a she that lived a life now lost.
Reaching forward to touch her? its? shoulder, she felt the memory of the morning rush over her. It was as if one existence was overlaid on top of the other, both too obscured to know which one was true, swirling around each other in a kaleidoscopic glide. This “she” thought of breakfast and outfits, the minutiae of a day. “She” did not think of them, did not know what awaited her downstairs.
The real? she, the present? she felt an overwhelming urge to lunge forward, to see which version would be the one to leave the room. She imagined a new breakfast. The same toast, same sunbeams streaming through the window. This time, she would embrace them before sitting down, smile so sweetly that they would forget that they “needed” to talk. She would only speak gently, act kindly, and perhaps, things would be right again. Perhaps, the next “I love you” would be said without guilt, without hesitation, and without a hint of indifference or contempt.
Stepping forward could lead to a life of walking backward.
Except it wasn’t just one breakfast or one argument. How many times would she have to start over until things were right? Stepping forward could lead to a life of walking backward. Maybe she would have to go back to the coffee shop they visited last week. Or, maybe the amusement park where they celebrated six months. Maybe their first date, maybe the day or week before. Maybe they would never meet. In the world beyond the doorway, they would slide past each other on the subway, sit alone at the same cafe, stand in different parts of the line at a concert they would’ve gone to together.
And as she listened to the intention, the anger, in their rustling downstairs, stepping forward began to feel wrong. Like a lie or part of some scheme. One more breakfast would not guarantee a better future for either of them. Stepping forward was a purely selfish desire, an attempt to delay her tears to another, though perhaps distant, inevitable day. The projection in front of her shuddered and appeared to take a step forward, starting its progression toward the steps. She shut the door and sank back down to the ground.
