“You want the answer I give everyone or the honest one?”
“The honest one.”
“What’s hard is other people telling you what you should or shouldn’t feel. They don’t get it. If you aren’t in my shoes, you can’t understand it.”
“Go on,” I tell him, just to torture myself more.
“Your memories all have feelings attached to them. So if you can’t remember something, it doesn’t matter how many times someone tells you what happened and how you felt.”
Tears fall, as I know he’s talking about Billie, but I keep chatting with him.
“That makes sense,” I write because it’s the truth. I understand his rationale.
“My memories are coming back, but it’s in waves, and it’s like my brain is a mishmash of puzzle pieces with too many holes.”
“That must be difficult.”
“I won’t lie. It got pretty dark a month ago.”
My pulse creeps up. “What do you mean?”
He doesn’t write back. After ten minutes, I try again, “I’m sorry if I pried too much.”
“You didn’t. I’m trying to figure out what to say without sounding pathetic.”
“Don’t worry about that.”
“I fell into a bad depression. I wished I’d gotten killed in the accident or just not woken up.”
More tears fall out of my eyes. “Do you still feel that way?”
“Not anymore. I’m remembering things. So I have hope again.”
“Never give up. Even when it seems pointless, hope is always something to hold on to.” I wonder if he remembers anything about me.
“I’m going to write that down. That’s a good reminder for me.”
I want to tell him who I am. To ask him if he remembers anything about me, but I don’t.
“Hey, my buddy is here for our run. I need to go. Finish this game later?”
“Sure. Have a good run.”
“Thanks for not judging me.”
“I never will. You can throw whatever you want at me.”
“Thanks. It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t know me.”
A pain of guilt stabs me. Instead of confessing, I write, “Agree. Talk to you later.”
I throw my phone on the couch and stare into space for a while, reflecting on everything Xanderrevealed.
No matter how much time goes by, I can’t shake him, and having spoken with him, my love for him isn’t any less than before. But now I’m worried about him and his mental state.
I spend the day with our conversation haunting me. When nighttime comes, I get into bed, pull up the Words with Friends chat box, and reread the conversation.
I don’t message him, but I take my next move on the board then put my phone on the table.
