AA: No. I left before she could.
WL: That is an interesting truth.
I feel my listener doesn’t like what they’re hearing. I try to trick myself into thinking that it’s WL’s disapproval I’m concerned with, and not the nagging disapproval in my own thoughts.
AA: There are other factors.
WL: What are they?
AA: I can’t tell you.
I expect WL to fight this, but instead I get:
WL: I respect that. Have you told her?
AA: About the other factors? Yes.
WL: All of it?
AA: Yes.
WL: And what was her reaction?
AA: She didn’t believe me. And then she did.
WL: And how did that feel?
AA: Beautiful.
WL: Why would you stop, then?
AA: Because it can’t work.
WL: But even if you’re not together, you can still talk. Why did you stop?
AA: Because I didn’t want to hurt her. Because I don’t want to be hurt. Because I’m afraid. Because wanting to change the things you can’t change—that is so devastating.
WL: But still—you want to talk to her.
AA: Of course.
WL: There’s your truth.
I am formulating my response to that when another message appears.
WL has logged out.
The chat box doesn’t close. As if I may still want a transcript of my truths. As if I won’t remember where this has led me.
I push back from the desk, and it’s only when I do this that I remember I am Whitney right now. I am in Whitney’s body. For a moment there, I completely forgot. I became the bodiless self I imagine everyone becomes when they’re engaged entirely in thought and words.
I should turn off the computer. But there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to put the answers back on the shelf, that doesn’t want to walk away.
I pull myself back to the keys. Before I can stop myself, I go on Facebook, type in her name. It’s an immediate gut punch to see her picture, to have her exist in a form other than memory.
I have to see more.
I click on her name and her page comes up. The profile picture is bigger now—her alone, smiling in front of a movie theater. The photo is recent, from a week ago. I know I should stop myself, that no good can come of this, but I click on the photos tab. I want to see more.
And there he is. Alexander. Who got to stay. Who got to be with Rhiannon.
My instincts must have been right, because the two of them look happy.
Even if he’s not in the profile photo, he must be the person she’s smiling at.
I jump back out to the overall photo page, the mosaic of the photographic past. The first few rows are mostly them as a couple. Then there are pictures of her alone. Some with family. Some with friends. I don’t remember the friends’ names. I don’t recognize most of them. Justin, her evil ex, is nowhere to be found. Which is a relief.
Her recent life is laid out in front of my eyes. But it’s not life, I tell myself. It’s only a representation of life. I am telling myself this, but the sadness is gripping me. I am telling myself this is not real, but the weight of it is real. The truth. The hard truth.
There are no pictures of us.
Not because she deleted them.
There were never any pictures of us.
Never any record.
We were never a part of the shareable present, so we are not a part of the shareable past.
This hurts. This hurts so much that the feeling transfers to Whitney’s body, because my sorrow, my anger, my helplessness are more than just the mind can hold.
I go back to Rhiannon’s home page. I am staying wide of the message button. I am not going to message her.
I suppose I should be grateful. Years ago, there would have been no way to do this. I would have been a submarine without a periscope. Leaving would have meant leaving completely behind. Out of sight, out of reach.
But now she is within reach—and I can feel myself reaching. There is the illusion that she can feel me doing this.
She cannot feel me doing this. She cannot sense me seeing her. She cannot know. Because I cannot be seen like she can be seen.
I start to scroll down. Most of the posts are ones she’s been tagged in—now that I see the friends’ names, I remember them. Preston likes to share cat videos. Rebecca comments about how much she doesn’t like cat videos. Alexander posts artwork he likes—Hockney mountains and Sugimoto horizons.
And Rhiannon…
Rhiannon posts a song.
At first I gloss over it. Then I realize what it is. What it means. No—what it could mean.
I am back in the car, singing along at the top of my lungs.
No, not my lungs. Justin’s lungs.
It doesn’t matter. Once Rhiannon knows I am there, I am there. I am singing with her. And again in that basement. As Nathan.
I am so happy, thinking about it. And sad.
We were so happy then. And sad.
There’s no way this is an accident. There’s no way this wasn’t intended. I scroll down and see, in the comments section, another song. Not our song. But still—irrefutable.
“I Still Miss Someone.”
Is it meant for me to see? Or is it just how she was feeling, her own in-joke to herself?
The message button is calling to me.
But it is a siren. I know it is a siren.
The lines between I cannot do this and I should not do this and I will not do this are all confused. I almost wish the window with WL were still open, so I could ask WL what to do. To which WL would no doubt ask back: Which of the three above statements is the truth?
And I would respond: They are all the truth.
Then: None of them are the truth.
I don’t know if I’m looking for a barrier, but I find one. I am, of course, using Whitney’s account. Right now, I cannot message Rhiannon. Only Whitney can. Rhiannon would know it was me. But that would still leave Whitney. I could hijack her account—change her password, message from it secretly until Whitney took it back. But what kind of person would I be if I did that to her? Not one worthy of Rhiannon.
It will have to be enough to know she is there.
For now.
Before I can spend too much time scrutinizing photos that were never meant to be scrutinized…before I can spend too much time debating the words I won’t allow myself to type…I log out. Clear history. Shut everything down.
I know it’s wrong for me to think it, but Rhiannon feels closer now.