‘Bring jumpers– Evie’s house gets really cold at night,’ he says before calling Kendrick over and asking for two more glasses of water. ‘How are you getting there?’
‘I don’t know. . . Bus? Train? Something.’
It got thrown our way months ago and I only looked up the route once. That’s unheard of for me– evenIcan barely believe it. Neither can Aiden, apparently. He stares at me, mouth ever so slightly agape.
‘I’m gonna drive so if I work from your office Friday, you can leave with me?’ he says.
I nod in agreement; it beats buses and trains for certain. Plus, over the last couple of months, I feel like Aiden and I have been so busy with work that we haven’t had time to drive each other too mad.
Benji still hasn’t replied by the time I get home. Nor has he by Wednesday night, two whole days later.
We’ve talked about this.
I cannot keep having this same conversation. I understand that he’s busy– I am too– but I make time for his messages and he should be able to do the same. I can’t think about packing.
I type a quick message to Aiden.
I’ll get the train to Evie’s. I think I’ll need to come home to pack on Friday night.
I can’t think about anything but the unopened text bubbles that lurk beneath my lock screen. One time would be fine. Twice, I could get over. But I cannot keepdoingthis over requests for basic conversation. And with him, it isbasic. Basic as can be. There’s no way it could be anything else– for that, he would have to reply. The phone vibrates and I dive for it, but it’s just Aiden.
Getting the train makes no sense. Throw some clothes in a bag and bring it to the office with you.
My overnight bag sits empty on my bed, mocking me less than forty-eight hours before departure time, but I’m in no state to pack a bag. I need answers, and quickly. The type that only Instagram can provide. I roll onto my stomach, unlocking my phone and scanning the row of profile pictures across the top for Benji’s, to no avail. It’s suspicious for someone who posts to his story all day and every day (and still doesn’t have time to text me back). I go for Plan B. I open the search bar and. . .
Nothing.
No account when I search for his name.
No fragmented chat where our message history once was.
My heart drops to my stomach.
Canone of you search Benji’s @ and let me know if his profile comes up?
It’s a mildly unhinged request, but one the FGA take on with no question, each one sending through the same screenshot of his clearly active profile.
He’s blocked me. A week after we got on the phone and hebeggedme to ‘take it easy and just give him a chance’.
He blocked me. Like a coward. And I hate to say it, but there’s a part of me that’s not even that surprised.
So, guess we’re over?
I text, blood hot as I type, attaching a screenshot of theusername not foundmessage.
He’s online instantly. It’s the quickest he’s ever opened a message and the longest he’s ever spent typing a response. I can’t look away. I wait for what feels like hours as the bubble keeps moving– taunting me each time it wiggles. Eventually it comes through. . . One sad little sentence. One long, nervous wait for a dull, thoughtless end.
It all got too much. Gd luck with everything.
And just like that, the bubble bursts. It’s over– for real this time.
Nudge 27
The Lesson
Are you allowed to call a break-up a break-up if you were never technically in a relationship? It was barely a situationship– I can’t claim he used me for sex, because he was too lazy to even meet up for that. And yet, the way he ended it has made me feel absolutely worthless.
A week ago, I was questioning why I was even seeing someone who’s asked me one question about myself since the first time we kissed (The question?What you wearing?, sent at 11 p.m. He was asleep by the time I replied five minutes later). Now I’m replaying all our interactions back in my head as a reel of best bits, and blinking back tears. I’m acting like a war-widow. It’s pathetic.
