Saga

of all the ways to do it, i did it wrong. of course i did it wrong.

i was afraid to call you but you asked me what's wrong?

my voice was very small.

the first thing you said was Jesus. it was just like every other time. we went somewhere else, the way you suggested. i almost tried to share your umbrella but thought better of it.

apparently you still had my number. you asked me where i got yours.

as we escaped alica's mom i made up a lie you thought was a good lie. you kept saying you wanted to go but stayed. don't slip. they probably heard you screaming in the place where ironies were born.

at the cashier you whispered did you hear that. there were so many times we didn't say anything back.

i asked you twice: what did you think of him. i wanted to tell you a story but it was difficult to say it right.

we kept talking about how different we were.

how are you both so stupid and so self-aware, you said, hours later. i couldn't look at you the first time. i looked at the table and myself in the half reflected window. the sound you hated of acrylic nails dragging condensation across the tabletop. i said the same things over and over until you got it.

when you came up you said either way you're so fucked.

we kept asking each other the same questions. you on the swing. you in the reflection. so what are you gonna do?

and when?

the problem is that everyone already knew the problem. you said at least you learned something in high school. i still don't know how to stop hurting people. i still wanted to protect him.

you said if i had to describe your high school life with one word, it would be "cringy."

you said you almost didn't come. it was insanity that you did. i never wanted to do the "for their own good" things.

at the intersection i thought about how many times over the years i had wanted to ask you what to do. we referenced the past and it didn't hurt, well only a little, like pinches.

you unmuted me?

when you left you said you'd leave me unmuted for a while. if there ever is a next time you'd probably be busy.

i kept saying there is no story. there is no story because it is always going to be the same one.

when i was outside i stopped caring about stepping in puddles. i sat in starbucks for hours in the notes app.

and at night i ruined it. started a fight to make him leave so i wouldn't have to do it. i imagined myself telling you: i couldn't help him. but i saved myself.

you self-aware asshole, you'd say.