#myself into a container so constrictive that the surface snaps and i come spilling out as an angry liquid. smearing away into nothing

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Can’t make you love me (E.D.)

Summary: Being only friends with a guy you’re in love with is hard enough, but seeing him make out with another while missing her birthday reminds Y/N why she doesn’t celebrate birthdays.

Warnings: best friend fluff, angst and swearing

Word count: ~ 2000

Part 2  Part 3

I looked around, spinning in circles with a wide smile on my lips. Trying to take it all in, I giggled loudly before swinging my arms around Grayson in gratitude. Not only did he manage to surprise me with a birthday party, but he also decorated their entire house in my favorite color, blue, and fairy lights as he knows I love sparkly things.

„Gosh, you're really going for the best friend award of the year!“ I squealed, untangling myself from my best friend in the whole white world. He always gave the biggest, warmest hugs! It's also why I call him Gray-bear.

„I just wanted your sweet twenty to be SWEET!“ Grayson exclaims, returning my smile with one of his own, happy I enjoyed this night as I insisted on no parties for months now.

„You're just...I love you Gray bear“, I felt my eyes water, so I rubbed them lightly to stop any tears from falling.

„Are you actually crying?“ Grayson couldn't help but tease me, swaying his body left-right to make me laugh.

„I never cried because I'm happy before.“ I admit before adding with an index finger pointed at his chest: „No one can know this happened!“

Grayson raises his hands in mock surrender, nodding.

„My lips are sealed.“

Content with his answer, I hook my arm with his and walk into the small crowd while carefully examining each face.

Grayson leans in and whispers:

„He's not here yet.“

„Who?“ I tried to play dumb, but Grayson could see right through me. He knew before I did: I loved his brother. And not in a brotherly way like I loved him, but the crazy for you – feel my heart is gonna burst – want to marry you sort of a way.

„Ethan will be here soon. He's coming back from New Jersey, remember?“ Grayson reminds me and I nod, tight-lipped and slightly dejected.

Ethan stayed back to deal with the skate park building while Grayson flew back to prepare everything for their video – and my birthday, I suppose.

„That's okay. I got you!“ Kissing his chin quickly, I wink and pull him by his shirt to the center of the room.

We danced like two crazy people, neither able to keep up with the beat and Grayson's neck getting all stiff as Ethan once pointed out. Once you notice he does it, you cannot forget it.

After an hour, completely drenched in sweat with make up smudging, I was in dire need for refreshments. Grayson plopped on the couch while I maneuvered through the crowd and went toward the pool house, knowing Grayson left extra supplies over there. After all, the kitchen was swarming with people, some I barely knew since the party gradually grew.

Just as the fresh air hit me, giving me goosebumps and cold sensations all over my body, I freeze.

Parked in front of the house, leaned on the hood of a car stood Ethan.

And he wasn't alone.

A girl stood between his thighs, his hands grabbing at her hips and pulling her in like she was the air he so desperately needed. She held his face in her hands, a pleasurable moan escaping her as Ethan tilts his head left and I finally see his eyes are closed.

It felt like someone knocked the very breath out of me. My heart was beating a mile a minute, breaking with each second that passed into pieces that would never quite fit perfectly again. I felt emotionally bankrupt. There was nothing left to feel, nothing left to say, nothing left but the void that enveloped my mind in swirling blackness.

Turning on my heel, I walk into the house without lifting my head. I walk like a zombie, ice running through my veins, chilling me to the bone. It was like drowning in a frozen lake; I’m pounding through the ice to get to the surface for a breath of fresh air, but the coldness penetrates deep inside, chaining me to the water all the while pulling me under.

I stood still in the hallway, staring at my own feet feeling lost.

A hand on my shoulder snaps me back to reality and I’m met with Grayson’s concerned face.

„You okay there, little one?“ He always joked about my height although I wasn't THAT short at all. I always smiled and rolled my eyes when he called me that, but I couldn't muster up enough strength to do so at the moment and he knew...he knew I was broken.

Without a question, Grayson cups my face and bores his eyes into mine, his intense stare forming a small bubble of sorts where only he and I were allowed to be inside.

„Who do I need to murder in cold blood?“ Those words elicit a broken laugh on my behalf, a tear escaping me as the sound fills our little bubble.

„It's nothing. Just...me being stupid.“ I sniffle, licking my bottom lip while averting my gaze to the left.

Grayson follows my eyes, craning his neck to keep eye contact at all costs.

„I called you to help me figure out how to turn on the dishwasher...can't get worse than that. Hit me.“ Grayson raised his eyebrows, expecting an answer and I knew I had to respond.

„Ethan is out there, latched onto some girl and I just...“ I couldn't stop my bottom lip from quivering, hating myself for being so pathetic.

„I just wanted him with me for my stupid birthday. THIS IS EXACTLY WHY I DON'T CELEBRATE THEM.“ I shout, trying to free myself from Grayson's arms and to my surprise he lets me. I didn't even look at him for a reaction, opting to pace around him while my brain spontaneously combusted in the process.

„And I was going to ask him how he feels tonight! HOW STUPID AM I? Why did I ever think I ever had a chance?! He sees me as his annoying friend to tease about how uptight I am.“ I kept rambling, getting dizzy while walking in circles until Grayson grabbed a hold of me, steadying me before letting me stand on my own in order to prevent me from fainting.

„I know you've been into him for years, Y/N. I see the way you look at him and how you go out of your way to help him whenever he needs you. And I know my brother...unless you do confess, he'll never admit to feeling anything and HE DOES feel something for you. He does! Just be honest with him. Okay?“ Grayson believed he was talking some sense into me, but I was losing it internally.

I nod in response before giving him a short hug.

„Please get me something to drink?“ I ask sweetly, blinking a little faster than usual.

„I hate when you do that! It's like puppy eyes, but cuter!“ Grayson groans, leaving me to my own thoughts.

I sneak to the backyard, opening the door to leave. I couldn't do it. I wouldn't.

I needed time to heal before letting myself see Ethan again without crying. I loved what Grayson did for me, but Ethan didn't even bother showing up for my birthday?! He literally sat outside and made out with some girl and I was the last thing on his mind. Even if he didn't like me, I was supposed to be his best friend. And it hurt to know I wasn't a priority in his book. It hurt to know I wasn't important enough to even come in and say hi.

After all, I can keep being there for him and prioritize him over anything, but that won't help me. I can't make him love me. It's the bitter truth I needed to face.

**

„Hey, where's Y/N?“ Ethan finally stumbled upon his brother, looking a little worried. But his worrisome face didn't even match the look on Grayson's.

„She disappeared completely. I can't find her anywhere, E.“ Grayson talked fast and panicked, the glass in his hand shaking.

„Why the fuck would she disappear from her own party?!“ Ethan rolled his eyes, annoyed more than worried now.

Grayson's face contorts into a scowl, narrowing his eyes at Ethan.

„She saw you making out with some chick out there and she ran the fuck off with a broken heart you asshat!“ Grayson let the secret spill and upon that realization, both brother's stared at one another with wide eyes.

„Why would that even matter? Broken heart? What are you talking about?! Have you been drinking?“ Ethan rambles, trying to ignore the pang in his heart he couldn't understand. He didn't know what it meant, only that he didn't like the feeling.

„Because she loves you and you broke her heart!“

„Nonsense! You're speaking nonsense! We're just friends. Look, I'll text her right now!“

To: Dove – Even seeing the nickname he had secretly put for her in his phone and mind made his chest constrict.

Where r u? I wanna wish u a happy b-day!!

It didn't take a second for three dots to appear in the bottom, indicating Y/N was writing a message. Ethan smirked, making Grayson roll his eyes this time around.

From: Dove

Home. I'm not feeling well.

Although Ethan would be packing and going to the store to get her something to recuperate, he didn't buy the excuse. He needed an explanation. But his phone lit up again and his heart dropped to the floor.

From: Dove

I need some time for myself. I'll call you guys when I find some peace of mind. Love you.

Grayson sat down, running his fingers through his hair with frustration. But Ethan could only focus on that 'Love you' part of her text, over analyzing every word and every memory he had of her.

„You really had to make out with someone tonight? Instead of being here for her?!“ Grayson bit his lower lip, trying hard to contain his anger as it bubbled to the surface.

„You're being ridiculous. I'm going over to see her and give her my gift and you'll see you totally misread the situation.“

He didn't wait for Grayson to stop him, practically running to his car. His legs made him hurry to lessen the time between seeing Y/N and making sure she's alright. He needed her to be alright. And more importantly, he needed to know if Grayson told him the truth. Did she truly love him? If she did, could he possibly salvage their friendship? Was this the end of everything?

Those questions left him almost paralyzed in fear in front of her house. He never had issue knocking on her door before, but this time his knock held a deeper meaning.

He walked to her door with fists forming, knocking exactly eight times until she opened the door without even checking who was on the other side.

She stopped short, drawing in a sharp breath at the sight before her; Ethan with a large, blue bag and blue roses in hand.

Her favorite color and favorite flower.

„You really need to check the door before opening, hon.“ He smiles, hoping to see one in return. But he doesn't.

Y/N doesn't move her eyes from him, but she doesn't say anything and that alone makes him uneasy. This is a girl that never stops talking and she was so quiet it gave him chills.

„I didn't meant to be so late tonight. I just...I'm sorry okay? I really messed up and I promise to make it up to you.“ Ethan was the only one speaking until Y/N raised her hand, palm turned to him, stopping him from talking.

„I know he told you. I see it in your eyes. You pity me...You want to make sure we're still friends?“ Y/N gnaws on her inner bottom lip and it's visible to Ethan's watchful eye who was taking great care in noticing any changes in her facial expressions. Her dejected, even irritated tone had told him she was not only hurt but angry as well.

„Is it true? Do you?“ Ethan asks quietly, swallowing thickly. He's terrified of her answer more than anything else in this world. Time stands still and the world stops moving as her lips part to give him the answer he both needs and fears.

„Ethan, I can't make you love me. But I need some space to heal. I'm thankful you took time to come here and give me these,“ She takes the presents from his hands without so much as glancing at them.

„And I hope you realize I do want to keep our friendship. Just give me time.“

'Have I lost her forever?' All his fears came to life.

Ethan wanted to speak, to say any damn thing. His lips opened and closed, but no sound left his lips. There was nothing he could say as his brain went dark when she told him she couldn't make him love her. She admitted her feelings. He completely shut down and there wasn't a single coherent thought inside his mind.

„Goodnight.“

So, she closed the door still unsure if their friendship will survive this, leaving an utterly confused Ethan outside her door with a single question arising inside his heart and mind: Do I love her too?

Tags: @accalialionheart @xalayx

[mdarwin]

In Which She Breathes In the Lake - Spring 2017

In Which She Breathes In the Lake

From prompt: Love without ‘love’

I had been in the hospital for a day and a half, and my mother would come into the room for about half of the day, in bursts, to rub my hands with hers, push my bangs out of my face, and cry. The rest of the time, she was on the phone in the hallway, trying to figure out what was going to happen with me. My father stayed in the room with me aside from trips to get us both seltzer, making conversation. I was as somber as you’d expect a patient to be, but even at this, the earliest outset of my hospitalization, he and I stepped in double-time towards a rapport that would allow us to survive the sterile rooms.

“Ha. Got one.” He was flipping through The New Yorker, scanning the pages for comics I would understand. He handed me the magazine, and I saw it was a reference to the ’93 Peter Steiner panel, “on the internet, no one knows you’re a dog.” This one was an August Stevenson panel, showing Poseidon sitting at a desktop, telling Hades and his three-headed dog Cerbeus, “On Patheos.com, no one knows you’re a god.”

“Ha.” I handed it back to him and went back to picking at my plastic ID band, reviewing its courier print for the thousandth time. Cohn, Miriam, D. DOB: 11/9/1989. NKA. This means “no known allergies,” I learned a few weeks later. But as I looked at it on my wrist, I thought, “now known as.” Following that abbreviation was my admittance date: 1/1/2005. The button securing the wristband had already broken two of my nails.

*

I was hospitalized because of premonitions. Of the moment when we all realize the multidimensional, leaking, versatile quality of time? Of the vastness of the area that this, my spindly current iteration of self, could spill into? Of the width of my breadth? More pressing, the width of my breath.

I had had trouble with sensations in my chest as long as I could remember. My mother always told me that I was describing anxiety, but the way people spoke of that can of worms didn’t add up. There was nothing troubling me; I just needed an easier way to breathe. I always walked around feeling constricted and panicky, but for a few weeks it was starting to feel truly untenable. Then, I started dreaming of lakes.

The first dream was a still scene. I bobbed at the edge of a lake I’m sure I’d never been to. I could see two small mountain peaks on the opposite edge, and the larger mountain hugged the curve of 

the lake’s mouth to my left. My upper lip rested on the water’s surface, parted from my lower lip by a few centimeters. The edges of my wide mouth touched the water at the spot my lips met each other on either side. My mouth felt spread as wide as the lake itself, and that night, in late December, I breathed in all that the lake had to offer, turning away not a single molecule, as if I were the lake’s mother and could not find fault with any part of its being in the depths of my enveloping, unconditional acceptance. My chest -- I could feel it -- was filled with the right stuff. The lake offered itself to me, and I homed myself in it, and it, in me. My heart rate was steady and smooth, like the surface of the lake itself. I said “yes” to the lake, and breathed.

In the second dream, a few nights later, the scene was similar, but above the horizon, the sky showed all of time. Dawn, daylight, dusk, and night; a cross-section of temporality, in a gradient half-circle. As I bobbed, the day’s anatomy throbbed, bleeding at the edges of each component in its diagram. Dawn dared day to name the border between them; night teased dusk and eked the latter’s shadows out of their confines, urging them to play in the daylight. Day tickled dusk and he returned the favor, their outermost selves becoming one; a flirtation. My mouth stretched to take in the lake, I felt my chest fill with gold, and my body was a sieve; thin, perfect strands of glittering calm seeped out of me, and I shared this pinnacle of sensation with the trees behind me, the sand in between my toes, the mountains ahead of me, and each living critter throughout time -- time, which separated nothing from no one.

In the third dream, I came.

*

I told my mother, the night before New Year’s parties would deposit people into trains and cabs in bandage dresses and tiny hats, “I’m pretty sure I can breathe water.” She thought I was high. She shook her head and waved her hand at me, signaling me to leave the room, to leave her alone. I sat among potted succulents on the bathroom windowsill and looked out through frosted glass onto vague figures on the street for a while before drawing a bath. But she was heading to bed, and when she heard the tub, she turned down the hall instead of towards her room to let me know there was no hot water in our old building for the rest of the night because of the radiators. “But time isn’t even linear,” I said. I held myself between my arms, naked, long, curved but not curvy. My back arched forwards and my hair hung over my face and shoulders where the knots of my spine ended, the blonde curls I usually nurtured falling lank and defeated.

“What are you on, miss cryptic?”

“Air, I guess.”

“Fine, whatever. Go to bed, would you? Here, come take a valium.” She reached for the family bottle from the medicine cabinet and I pulled my underwear and tee shirt back on. I swallowed her pill and then got in bed, where I fell asleep and breathed in the lake a fourth time.

I was familiar now with the transcendence taking place. I could only breathe in the lake, and I could. Time and space are helixes of a not-quite-finite number of dimensions, and my body on the earth could only ever be a memory, my consciousness a formality. I will always be there, in the lake, breathing full, wide, and deep, spilling gold. So why put in the hours suffocating?

*

Following the fourth dream, I induced respiratory impairment in the bathtub, and my treacherous body (that bitch!) betrayed my silly, mortal will to live by kicking heavy-bottomed glass bottles of bubble bath and oils from Sabon into the water with me with loud ploips and onto the floor, ka-donk, where they rolled towards the bathroom door over subway tile, r-r-r-rnnggg. My mother opened the door when she heard the ruckus. My own foggy mind, functioning with only a fraction of the oxygen necessary for normal operations, was not keeping pace with the scene around me, but in a few swift movements, my tall, broad, Norse jew of a mother was hoisting me out of the water like I was some defiant slug. I coughed just a little, and then air wormed its way back into my life.

*

“So you’re saying you don’t understand the difference between your dreams and the world around you when you’re awake? I’m not challenging you or calling you stupid; I just want to make sure I understand.” It was the earliest light of the new year, and my father sat on a chair in the hospital room with his elbows on his knees. His fingers were knitted together, and he faced me where I sat with my hands tucked under my thighs on the edge of the bed, barefoot, in two white gowns with blue stars printed all over them. One covered me in the front; the other, the back. I felt like a sandwich, a book, or some kind of hallway punctuated by walls. Contained and shrouded by the loose gowns, one could only tell I was becoming a woman because I was so much taller than a child. I looked at my father, recognized the academic nature of his question, and tried not to harbor animosity for his insistence on land over water.

“Maybe I do understand the difference, but I just prefer one to the other.”

“Do you understand how that sounds to me?” He was pleading, now, biased. “To your mother? To the doctors, for shit’s sake, Miriam.”

“…Like I’m crazy?” I knew it to be true, I did. I guess that’s what gets left out, when they warn you -- when they advertise the value of sanity. You know when it starts to slip away. You let it happen. You could fight to keep it, but you don’t.

“You know, I don’t have the control here, anymore, because of this,” he said, looking down at the spotted linoleum between his Clarks. He brushed his hands up the back of his head, releasing some physical tension, before snapping up with a virulence and pacing the few square feet available. “Okay. Okay, so, this is us now. Fine. Okay.” He looked out the window onto Van Voorhees park with his hands on his hips, nodding at nothing. “Okay.”

*

“Gödel, Escher, Bach isn’t fucking relevant here, so stop,” she spat this last word, “bringing it up. You need to tell these doctors what is going on and we need to get this the fuck handled, do you hear me?” My mother hadn’t slept in two days. She was behind me, leaning in close in order to shout-whisper. The social worker assigned to us at NYU Langone had had some trouble making it clear to her that I would not be going home with her to Carroll Gardens once I was “stabilized,” and instead would require some kind of medical supervision which seemed to warrant very delicate phrasing every time it was brought up. The social worker, two doctors, five residents, and something like eight nurses traipsed in and out of the room I was held in during this transitional period, and twice that day (the third) a “long-term facility” had been mentioned but not explained. I wasn’t in the dark, though. I knew it wasn’t any place good.

“That is what’s going on,” I said, without investment. We were standing in the communal bathroom in the hall a few paces down from my room, and I was scrubbing my face with an industrial washcloth and some über-classic sort of bar soap that smelled like the idea of soap. Staying still makes me feel dirty, so I was scrubbing about ten times a day -- mostly my face, but twice a day I could get away with requesting a more intensive full-body address. I couldn’t be there alone, though, because of the plumbing. My mother stood over me with her arms crossed, watching me while the sink ran. The mirror above the sink was dented, and I tried to convince myself to not log the memory of how my face looked in it. I didn’t want that image in my head. Instead, I closed my eyes and covered my face with the soaked washcloth again, the soap now rinsed out. I had chosen lukewarm for this session, although cold water had its benefits, despite the season. Hot was good for the evening hours, which would be here soon enough, although I wouldn’t, because there was a bed for me north of the city at Four Winds (or was it Five?) and transport was on its way.

I held the washcloth in place gently with both hands, cupping it in place as a mask with my head tilted back, and I breathed in the sharp density it offered. Inside the washcloth, I was in a cave, and the rest of the hospital, on some other side of the rock. Eyes covered, olfactory input muted, admitting only the cotton, the oxygen, and the dear duplicity of the hydrogen, and a stubborn refusal to listen to anything farther away from me than the rag, I heard the sounds of stalactites communicating with the rock surface beneath them; with the pool of private, ghostly black water. I heard the drips, pops, and hisses of water talking. Cold and wet, indistinct from neighboring molecules. Flowing and folding, turning in on itself. At once everything, so that nothing could matter. Deathly and inviting. I felt chilled, clean, and filtered, and I was grateful for the sensation.

“That’s enough,” my mother said, ripping the washcloth off my face and tossing it into the trash.

*

When I got back to Brooklyn Heights Montessori in March, about a quarter of my classmates asked me directly what had happened. I told them I was getting medical treatment for a heart condition, but that I was fine. The other three quarters of the student body either made up their own answers, or didn’t spend any time thinking about it. My teachers all knew where I had really been -- there had been a meeting. I walked through the halls like a phantom and did my work in class distractedly, and I tried my best to avoid thinking of lakes. But when Noah Sacks asked, I told him the truth. Noah “All-Over” Sacks, who was quiet but could make me laugh. Noah Sacks, who once told me he kept a drawing I gave him when we were eight. Noah, who could be a house for the right person. Noah. Noah. Noah.

“But were you even depressed?” he asked, when two other students got up and left us alone at a table in the courtyard. He asked after a minute of silence, as if picking up a conversation I had had with someone else. He said the words, then pulled his massive shoulders farther away from where I was sitting, next to him on the bench. He was giving me the space to answer.

“No, I’ve never been depressed.” I felt like a little kid next to him. Like spaghetti, hyper-fallible, prone to get blown away in the wind. He was a foot taller than me and four times as wide. I looked straight at him with the knowledge that it wasn’t just size that imposed vulnerability on me, in the space between us.

“So, you did it for some other reason.”

“Did what?”

“Whatever would put a teenager as fucking mysterious as you are in the hospital for three months. It’s not a secret. I’m alive. I’ve read a book before.”

“Okay, yeah, I did it for a different reason. The reason was not that I was unhappy. I wasn’t unhappy.”

“So then, why?”

I told him about the lake in my dreams. About how it just struck me as obvious, that night, that mortality and temporality were annoyances, not reality. But mostly what I told him was how good it felt to breathe in the lake. The purity in my lungs, when I said “yes” to the lake. The unrivaled joy; the sweet release; the acquiescence of pleasure unto me. I told him it was cold and clear, smooth as glass, filling, light.

“And I guess I still figure that if I can manage to get out of the structure of time, I’ll get there, and I can stay there -- or, not stay, but just have it, and be in it. I mean, it happened at some point, so really, it’s always happening. A moment or an hour stretches through everything, and it never stops being true.”

Noah was beaming at me when I finished speaking. “That sounds amazing, Miriam.” He shook his head and his voice shook, too, just a bit, with notes of happiness. “I can’t wait for you to have that.”

I realized I was crying a minute later. Noah looked straight ahead and put his hand flat on the bench between us. I looked straight ahead, too, and, quivering silently, placed my hand on top of his.

**

Noah lives across the country, now. He comes back east once a year. He’s here now. It’s christmas eve. I have a Charlie Brown tree in the corner of my studio apartment, with a string of white lights on it and all of the ornaments that Noah has brought me over the years. A melting clock. Two felt fish. A piece of driftwood carved into an anatomically correct heart, and four hand-painted stones, one for each season, suspended in a net of twine. One year he brought me an envelope he made out of yellowed parchment, with Oregon sand inside, “HELD” printed in the wax seal, and it’s hanging from a red velvet ribbon, now, and I can see it from the mattress on the floor, where we lay, still but for fingertips and breath. It is late at night, snowing, and the radiator is on and the window is wide open. He stretches out his arm and pulls all of me into his vast chest, where I curl up, and my full breadth spreads out in the calm expanse. I burrow into his heart. I breathe in the lake.

I am home.

***