You left without saying goodbye
No emojis, no questions, no pleas. The most un-Fielder-like text I’d ever received, and it made me nauseated.
I showed Sienna, and immediately, she said, “Oh my god, he’s typing more!”
For thirty minutes, Fielder started and stopped typing.
Nothing ever came through.
“Are you gonna respond?” she asked. “You have read receipts on for each other.”
I nodded. “I don’t know what to say.”
“What do you want to say?” she asked.
I love you
But my blue texts turned to green. Fielder had blocked me.
I didn’t stop crying until I landed in Seattle three days later.
. . . Two Months and Five Days Post-Breakup . . .
Hey Fielder. Happy birthday! I hope you’re celebrating at some cool new spot with the Coven. Usually we’d be getting ready for a new school yearand going to the Blossom Avenue Italian Feast and stuffing our faces with zeppole and fried Oreos lol. Hopefully you and Matty continue the tradition. I just got back to the dorm from another grueling day at the shop. My hands are bleeding, but I love it. I’m still not sleeping well.
I wrote a new poem for you. It’s called “you”:
I made a list
of everything I love,
all I lost and missed out on.
It was only one word.
Happy birthday, Fielder
Ricky
After I hit Send, I scrolled through three months’ worth of green bubble texts to Fielder that I knew he would never read, and sent one more text for good measure. I could have tried some other way to get ahold of him, get a dummy phone and call or text, but it was more comforting to stay blocked than face the reality that he hated me and would tell me as much if I did reach him.
On the off chance that this slips through your phone’s impeccable block feature, and you get the flood of messages I’ve been sending every single day since I left New York, I want to say it again: I’m sorry.
Tomorrow was a new day. Maybe then the skies would be blue.
. .. Six Months, Two Weeks, and Four Days Post-Breakup . . .
“Are you afraid?” Christian Richards loomed over me, arms folded, studying my craftsmanship as I worked. He was a tall, slender man with a handlebar moustache like from an old Hollywood western. Standing at six-foot-seven, he towered over everyone in the class. He had long silver-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail.
“Sir?” I wasn’t afraid of him, per se, but I wanted his respect, and it seemed like lately I couldn’t do anything correctly. My work was suffering, and he was hypercritical of everything I was producing.
I lifted my safety goggles and rubbed my eyes. Something had felt off all day—my body wouldn’t cooperate, and my head was back in New York. More than usual.
“You’re working that wood like it’s going to bite you. So timid. You are not in control.” He crouched down. “You’re distracted. You’re not commanding the wood; the wood is commanding you.”
He was talking at me, but nothing was sinking in. I wanted to scream. His words were far away, like I was underwater and he was yelling from above the surface.
A hand on my shoulder jolted me to attention. “Mind if I show you?” Christian and I traded places, and with a brilliant, fluid ease, his hands melded with the wood. “All it needs is yourguidance, and it listens.” He stood up and instructed me to do as he did.
