For some reason the image of him looking incredibly sexy with a furrowed brow buried in a book took over all rational thought.
“What if you leave the library before I get back?”
He thought for a second, then he pulled out his phone, typed something and handed it to me. I winced at the bright screen but lifted my eyebrows at what I saw. An open contact form with the name “Laptop Thief” already typed in.
I laughed, added my phone number and handed it back.
“My name is Grace, by the way,” I clarified.
“William.” He hit call on his phone, and my phone buzzed in my pocket. He gestured with his laptop once again and I finally took it.
“It was nice to meet you, Grace. Good luck with your exam.” He smiled at me sheepishly and climbed the stairs into the library.
From that day on I saw him as my hero, my knight with shining Apple products that saved my arse twice in a matter of minutes. I thought it was a dream come true, a story to rival my parents. The fairy-tale moment I’d always wanted. For our first date we went to a bar on our university campus. We’d texted every day since we’d met, and I felt I already knew him so well. By the end of our date, he told me he thought I was his soulmate. Jokingly, I thought at first, but later realized he was serious.
Shaking off the memories and glancing back at my phone, I read the messages I sent the days after we broke up over and over until I feel travel-sick, or maybe just regular sick. The person who typed them feels like a long-lost friend. To think there was ever a time when I feltthatout of control, attempting to claw back someone so soon after they’d destroyed me. Relentlessly picking at the scab, opening the wound to inspect it over and over again until all that was left of me was scar tissue. The bus thumps over speed bumps as my thumb flicks to Instagram and types in William’s username. He’s barely posted since we broke up, a scarcity much appreciated during the harsh withdrawal period. Not being able to get a fix of the person who broke your heart living their best curated life online is both a blessing and a curse. The utter lack of them a curse in itself, but easier than seeing them doing better without you.
A slow, thick stream of tears escapes down my cheeks until I clock the familiar landmarks of my street. I wipe my eyes and read the message from William approximately fifteen more times as I walk home, hoping to find a hidden message implying something I can print out and frame as proof I’m not destined to be an unloved husk of a person for the rest of my life. Something along the lines ofHey just to let you know I’m still in love with you and regret everything OK thanks bye.
“Look!” I’ll say to my imaginary guests. “There wasoneman who thought I was worth a multi-year commitment!”
Instead, I find a deep pit of shame I’m still trying to escape. I decide to leave him hanging, wondering, waiting, just as he did to me.
11
ERIC BANCROFT MADE EDITS IN THE FOLLOWING DOCUMENT:
“DITTO PROJECT REPORTING.”
I enjoyed participating in this experience:
Agree.
Additional comments:
Relaxed atmosphere, tasty food and great teacher. The lesson is a good opportunity for bonding.
My body sags with relief after waiting for this report to come through for close to a week now. Thank God he didn’t mention the knife incident. As I reread his comment, just to double-check, my eye snags on the final word. Surely he doesn’t meanwebonded; he just means it would hypothetically be a goodopportunityfor bonding. For anyone who isn’t us. I pull out my phone, lingering on the empty conversation before finally typing out a message.
GH: Thanks for not ratting me out.
EB: You didn’t stab me deep enough to warrant telling Dad.
GH: That’s a relief, because snitches famously get stitches.
EB: And luckily for you I only needed light first aid and a bandage.
We don’t speak for a few days after that. Maybe with our new shiny truce in place, it’s better if we have limited communication. If you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say anything at all. That’s the healthy mindset I should have adopted when hyperfixating on what William’s text meant, the dark underbelly of the casual message. With Alice and Yemi’s guidance, I’d decided not to recklessly jump at the opportunity for an in-person meet.
Hey, things are kind of busy at work at the moment. What did you want to talk about?
William read the message almost immediately; he’s one of those people who have no qualms about leaving his read receipts on and replying whenever he feels like it. The digital equivalent of living in a ground-floor flat and walking around naked with the curtains open. Despite myself, I kept checking for a reply.
When I wasn’t regretting my message, I locked in another trial date. I’d had a pottery class in mind for a couple of weeks now, and had been talking to the owner, Mellie, about a brand partnership.
“So we’re here to make a... cup?” Bancroft asks as he holds open the door for me and I duck in under his arm.
“My flatmate brought me here a while ago; she calls it ‘creative therapy.’” I cartoonishly roll my eyes to avoid the truth of why I know about this place.
