Page 91 of The Art of Drowning

I’d just finished a solo study session in the campus library, my attempt at being social, or at least not sitting alone in my room every waking moment that I wasn’t in class. I ordered dinner to be delivered to my dorm and by the time I walked across campus, I only had to wait a couple minutes for the driver to show up.

I carried my dinner up to my room and opened the door to find the other half of my room occupied again. But whoever my roommate was, they’d already settled in just fine. Their bed was covered in blankets and pillows of varying colors and textures. From fluffy pillows to a thick, heavy-looking quilt made out of denim.

“Hey, roomie,” came a voice from behind me.

In my dreams, that voice would belong to Callum. And I’d turn around and he’d be here with me. I’d throw myself into his arms and probably cry, to be honest. But that’s not what happened. Because the voice behind me was too deep to be Callum’s.

I turned and came face to face with my new roommate. He wore workout gear, the kind of muscle shirts that were open at the sides, and a pair of basketball shorts. He turned his hat around backward, then thrust a hand out toward me.

“Bowman Sinclair. But all my friends call me Bowie.”

“Damien Flynn. My friends call me Damien.” I wanted to wince at how awkward I felt, but before humiliation got its hooks into me, Bowie laughed.

“It’s good to meet you, D.”

D. He’d just met me, and he gave me a nickname. In a weird, but comforting way, it felt like he claimed me.

“I got dinner. There’s lots. Um… Thai. I’m kind of addicted to it. We can share?”

His eyes lit up. “D, you and I are going to be best fucking friends.”

So maybe people really did just walk up and claim one another because Bowie and I clicked right from that first meeting where I was a little awkward, but he pulled me out of it without judgment.

I shared my dinner with him that night. And the next one. And the third night. And on the fourth night, Bowie dragged me out of the dorm room and made me eat in public, around people.

“You can’t hide in your dorm forever. You’ll never adjust to life on campus if you don’t live it,” Bowie said to me when I asked him why he was so insistent on making me leave the comfort of our room.

I hated that he was right. And I hated that I had no argument against it.

Later that night, as I lay curled up in my bed, it struck me that if I wanted to move on, if I wanted to not be fucking miserable all the time, that I’d have to let go of Callum. For real. I’d have to give up on the fantasy that he was ever going to choose me.

I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my breakdown when the tears came. I made sure to sniffle quietly, to keep my breaths slow and steady. To not alert Bowie to my emotional crash out.

But then the bed dipped and Bowie climbed in with me. He was a little bigger than me, and he used that to his advantage and made me the little spoon. He kissed me on the head and stroked my hair and after a few minutes, once I was in a little better control of myself, he said, “I don’t know what’s got you torn up like this, and you can tell me or not, but I want you to know that you don’t deserve to be so fucking sad all the time.”

“I’m not.” I tried to argue, but it was kind of stupid when my voice was choked and trembling.

Bowie made a quiet scoffing sound. “Bitch, please. You’ve been the mopey express since the day we met. And I love Mopey-D. Mopey-D is cute and sweet. But I’d kind of like to see you happy too.”

And just like that, Bowie became the one thing in my life that was good. The one thing that didn’t suck or disappoint me. The one person I could count on.

“I’d like to see me happy too.” I sniffled again, but the admission shifted something inside of me. Suddenly things were more clear.

I wasn’t happy without Callum because I wasn’t letting myself be happy without him. Somehow, I’d convinced myself that the only future I could have was either happy with Callum or miserable without him. An alternative never crossed my mind.

But if I could be happy with Callum, I could be happy without him.

Maybe.

Eventually.

It might take time, but Bowie was right. I didn’t deserve to be so fucking sad.

I didn’t get happier overnight, and sometimes I thought it was a pointless endeavor, that maybe I was wired wrong and happiness wasn’t a possibility for me. Sometimes, I convinced myself that I’d only dreamed of being happy when I was with Callum and that it wasn’t real. It never happened.

And then one day in the spring as the end of my first year approached, Bowie and I were lazing on the grass outside our dorm, studying together because we had the same course load, and I realized that I felt lighter than I had in months. Winter had been long and lonely. I’d lied to Bowie about going home, and I’d spent break alone in our dorm room, eating too much Thai and crying through rewatches of the same movies over and over again.

It was during one particularly cold, wet, wintry day during which I’d forced myself to venture out of the dorm room and get some fresh air and a Frappuccino from a place just off campus. Bowie was supposed to be back in a few days, and I knew I’d have to stop moping before he returned, but I didn’t know how to break the cycle. It had been so easy to fall back into. Bowie asked me if I was doing anything for break and I’d said I was going home.