“Hey, we’re not done with you, yet.” I chided.
“Oh yes we are,” she scoffed. “So again, how is all of that going?”
The question was in theory a light one, but in practice it was as weighted as a lead balloon.
“In terms of what?” I asked, trying not to sound as defensive as I felt.
Becka shrugged. “I just mean… y’know. The long distance of it all.”
“I mean, it sucks,” I shrugged, and paused while I tried to think of my answer. There was no need to put a brave face on with Becka. She’d been there in the beginning of our relationship, she’d seen how I had spiralled, and how I had eventually made peace with it. And she had first-hand knowledge of how a long-distance relationship worked.
“I just kind of feel… like we’re in limbo,” I said. “We talk every day and we send so many messages it could be a book.”
“But?” She prompted.
“No buts,” I said.
“It felt like a but,” Becka said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah well,” I sighed, “you look like one.”
“Smooth.”
“It wasn’t my best work,” I admitted. “There is no ‘but’. It just feels like we’re holding out for something. We just don’t know what that is yet. I mean, I just left, Becka. It was my choice. I left.” My voice caught on that final word. Like the threads of a sweater caught on a splinter. Unravelling.
“You didn’t leave him, babes.” Becka’s voice was soft, her eyes crinkling in concern.
“Didn’t I? I made this choice for myself. Not for him, not for us, and now we both have to live with it.”
“What was the alternative?” There’s no judgement to Becka’s tone. Nothing but mild curiosity, as though she knew the answer, she just wanted to see what conclusion I’d come to.
“That’s why I feel so frustrated,” I admitted. “There was no door-number-three. It was stay or leave. I just feel…” I huffed out a frustrated breath. “I feel like I had no choice, and that we’ve all just been forced into this timeline. Y’know? The timeline where mum has c-cancer” I swallowed thickly. “And where I had to leave Joon, and let’s not forget the global, fucking pandemic!”
My fingernails dug into my palms with such force that I had to make a conscious effort to unclench my fists.
Becka hummed in agreement.
“I hear ya, babes, I get it.” She shrugged. “I can only imagine how frustrated you feel right now. I just think you need to give yourself a bit of grace. Seriously, Ky. What choice did you have? The walls were closing in. Even without the lockdown, your mom would still be sick. She hasn’t got the flu, she hasn’t broken her hip. She has cancer. That’s not the kind of shit you deal with from thousands of miles away. When life gets that real, you go home, which you did. It’s how it’s supposed to be.”
I admired how black and white this situation was to Becka.
“And what about my relationship?” I quirked my lips, like I was asking in jest, but really, if I was honest with myself, I justwanted someone to tell me the answer, instead of tearing myself part to reach one
I expected Becka to deliver some sass; some wry, witty answer that was as much a non-answer as it was real wisdom, so when she sighed and frowned, her sudden melancholy surprised me.
“I think you know already the answer. If it’s meant to be, it’ll wait.”
I swallowed and nodded. Because yes, that was the conclusion I’d been heading towards, for some time.
The Following week.
“Mum,” I called, “you’ve got a delivery!”
I picked up the brown parcel, still damp from where I’d liberally sprayed it with lilac-scented disinfectant.
Thankfully, Royal Mail were still operating despite lockdown, but it had taken a little while to get use to the contactless style of delivery. The local posties were used to swapping pleasantries on doorstops with the people they’d delivered to for years. Now, they dropped parcels in designated safe spots and waved from the end of the driveway.
Because Mum was going to start chemo soon, we’d taken to spraying everything with disinfectant.
