“Yeah, but they don’t knowme,” I reply.
I can see that land.
“Is that ...” He pauses, as though we’re teetering on some precipice of conversation. We’ve shared a lot in however many hours have gone by since we got locked up here. Our drawbridges have been lowered from their usual battle-ready position. We’re hungry, tired, and uncomfortable. That’s certainly made for a feeling of being in something together. But we haven’t really gone too deep yet. And I’m not sure whether I’m wishing that he would.
But, as with anything with Eli, he doesn’t wait on a precipice for long. He just jumps. “Is that lonely?”
I blow out the breath I’m holding in. It’s a heavy question. “I do wonder sometimes if holding everyone else’s problems makes me less likely to discuss my own. Or rather, have space with others to even want to talk about myself.”
“And them? Like if your friends complain about their lives to you, do you feel like you’re at work?”
“I don’t have that many friends,” I admit before I can stop myself. It’s strange how easily that honest assessment simply slipped out. “I operate better with just one best friend. I talk to Dane a lot, and maybe that’s why we get along—we’re both sort of inherently unable to abide personal complication. She’s the most straightforward person I know.”
“But does that mean she never asks you about yourself?”
I consider that. I talk to Dane about my day as it goes along, and she’s not afraid to call me out. But we don’t exactly delve into my hopes and dreams. I can’t help but think about J and wonder how he’s become the one person in my life that actually probes deeper.
“She does, although we don’t get into it a lot. But I feel totally supported by her. And I have another friend lately that I can get into weightier things with more,” I admit. “Having two people seems almost extravagant.” I laugh softly.
“I have one friend like that,” he says, stirring to readjust his position. Sitting on the ground for hours on end is not going to feel great tomorrow, but there really isn’t another option. “I feel less lonely when I can talk to her.”
“You feel lonely?” I ask, surprised.
It’s not that I don’t know that the way someone presents themselves often hides something underneath. That’s sort of psychology 101. Yet maybe with Eli, it’s been easier to place him in a box and believe the extroverted man wasn’t introspective enough to pinpoint his own loneliness.
But it’s clear from how he shifts uncomfortably that maybe this conversation has scratched too close to the surface.
“Sorry,” I say. “Therapist habit to pry.”
It’s not a totally honest statement. I’m actually pretty good at separating work from life. But I don’t want to admit that I’m curious more than anything.
He just shakes his head, though. “No, it’s okay. I mean ... what else have we got to do, right?” He chuckles.
“Right,” I say, one of many reminders that the last few hours haven’t been a choice, but that we’re stuck here with nothing but conversation to keep us away from wondering how long we’ll be trapped.
“I thought about that a lot when Sarah and I broke up,” he says, not looking at me again, as though the admittance can’t be said straight on. “I thought being in a relationship meant someone knew me, and soI was terrified to lose that. But after she left, I didn’t really missherso much as having someone pottering around the flat. And then I’d chat to this friend of mine, and I realized I’d always told her a thousand times more than I ever told Sarah. I felt less lonely talking to a friend than I had through my entire relationship.” He puts his head in his hands and blows out all the air from his lungs. “Christ, that’s a sad-sack thing to say,” he mumbles. “I think being stuck on a roof is making me morose.”
I hate that in describing his life in a real way, he’s programmed to believe it’s pathetic. I know a lot of men feel that way, but it’s heartbreaking to see. This live wire, this ball of charisma, this surety can hide so much. I’ve always felt it’s more natural for lonely people to be introverts. But maybe that’s just because I am one. Extroverts can be seeking that connection even more and desperately hanging on to whatever comes along.
It shouldn’t be surprising that either of us has turned morose—we’re stuck on a roof with no end in sight, and as time goes on, the lack of food and water feels more and more dismal. But for all that baggage in front of us, it’s strange that I don’t feel more scared. His presence has, shockingly, brought comfort instead of panic. And as surprised as I am that he’s unexpectedly wormed his way in, that admission of his sadness shifts something even more and makes me want to fix whatever small things I can control in this moment. And perhaps that means letting down my guard a little bit too.
After the thumb war, I’ve kept a safe distance all night. But I push past the nervous invisible fence I’ve set up for myself and scoot over. The ingrained need to soothe him in this moment is overriding the physical trepidation I get when he’s close. I rest my head on his shoulder. I can feel the surprise in his posture at the movement, but then he relaxes.
And instead of it making me feel on edge again, I find that now it’s easy to sink into him, easy to fit next to him. It’s natural in a way I would never have expected. And after hours of leaning against brick walls and planters, there’s something especially reassuring about warm humanity.
“It’s not a sad-sack thing,” I say quietly. “I think it’s lucky to even have one friend who you feel actually knows you. Loneliness exists in so many relationships—more than you would imagine. I don’t think being in a relationship is a barometer for that. Some people are naturally lonelier than others, some people haven’t found someone they can be themselves with, and others just are going through a phase where they feel disconnected. But I’d lean into the relationships and friendships that do feel real—even if it isn’t necessarily the person you would’ve expected it to be, if it’s bringing you some peace, I wouldn’t question it.”
I imagine what J would say, if this was one of my columns. He’s really become that person for me, the one who I can tell anything to. It occurs to me that he might’ve texted tonight and is wondering why I haven’t texted back. I hate that whatever tentative move we’ve made toward reality is potentially being questioned by my inadvertent silence.
But the worry over J is interrupted by the very real sigh of the person whose shoulder I’m currently resting on.
“Thank you,” he says quietly. “I hate that we got stuck up here, but I’m glad at least that maybe now we can be ... friends?”
“I’d like that,” I whisper back.
Because at this point, after the hours of being up here, it’s actually true.
“Okay, this is both funny as hell and deeply sad for your backs.”
