A WEEKEND OF QUIET NEGOTIATIONS

A Weekend of Quiet Negotiations: On invisible illness, friendship, and the guilt of showing up imperfectly

Saturday night, my roommate of two and a half years was preparing to move back to his home country, Italy. His flight was at 5 a.m., and I was determined to take him to the airport. I picked him up when he first arrived and I needed to be there to see him off.

Fabio was the first friend I made when I moved to Melbourne. I’d been friendly with coworkers, but he was the first person I felt that instant click with. A small, bald Italian man with a generous heart and kind eyes.

He’d moved away before, but it was easier back then. We hadn’t lived together yet, hadn’t worked side by side in years, and as immigrants to Australia, we both knew our friendship might be fleeting. But then he came back and honestly, I don’t know where I’d be if he hadn’t moved into the spare room.

I was just coming out of a six-month stretch of not working while getting diagnosed with non-radiographic axial spondylarthritis (nr-AxSpA) when I found out he was moving back. I was thrilled to have my friend again, and even more excited to live with him. I’d made a rule never to live with friends, but we’d been distant enough that it felt safe, besides, it wasn't going to be forever, just until he found a better option.

When he moved in, I had no idea how much I needed him. I’d been so sick. Housework had become overwhelming. My body hurt. All. The. Time. I was depressed after being fired in front of my friends (that’s a story for another time). He came in and cleaned up after the catastrophe that felt like my life. He was there for me. For the tears. The tremors. The weight gain. Irritability. Burnout. Passive suicidal ideation. Unemployment. The moments of love, fear, and anger.

So, when he told me he was leaving with just ten days’ notice, my breath left me in a rush, and the space it carved stayed hollow. I can’t imagine he was doing any better. He had been struggling for months with the decision to move back, to be closer to his aging parents or to keep living his life. Life made that decision for him.

Friday night, he had his best friends over for a final hurrah. I’d worked all week and was exhausted, but I wanted to show up for him, needed to show up for him. I adore his friends, and I knew it might be the last time I’d see them, now that our glue was leaving. I wanted to drink, eat, laugh, and be merry. I wanted to celebrate this wonderful human who had done more for me than any one friend ever should.

But I couldn’t.

I chatted and hosted a little while he ushered his friends into his room, one by one, to say goodbye. I was grateful he didn’t call for me, I would’ve shattered. Knowing it would be a long night, I excused myself before dinner and took a nap. I must’ve been more depleted than I realized, because when I woke and rejoined the group, I couldn’t hold myself together.

I smiled weakly at jokes, half-listening to stories, calculating when it might be socially acceptable to slip away. My stomach churned from eating, my face trying to betray my fatigue, and I gave myself silent pep talks before speaking, trying to summon the version of me that could still pass as charismatic.

I was terrified they could see it: the sickness.

I kept repeating “This night is about Fabio, not me. Get it together.”

But the negotiations failed. I retreated to my bed, curled beneath the weighted blanket, listening to laughter and well-wishes through the wall. I didn’t say goodbye to anyone that night. And I guess I’ll never know if I’ll get to.

I cried because I couldn’t be there for my friend. Disappointed, again, that the life I want so badly always feels out of reach.

Just on the other side of the wall.

Saturday offered no reprieve. I knew it was my last day with Fabio and tried to be present without hovering. Earlier in the week, a friend had asked to grab a drink, she’d be nearby and wanted to talk about Nick’s career change. I knew I had to go. So, I took my meds, ate a nourishing breakfast, indulged in an extra coffee, and gave myself a pep talk: You can do this, Ainslie. Seeing your friend will bring energy and joy. The hardest part is getting out the door.

I didn’t know how long we’d stay out, but I promised myself I’d follow through. Still, when she texted to confirm, every part of me screamed to cancel. After faltering the night before, I wondered if you can’t even grab a drink to ease the load on Nick, then what can you do?

I was relieved it was a short hangout. By the end of the afternoon, I was wrecked. The walk to the brewery, the pot of beer to blend in, the unforgiving chairs. My body was in revolt. My back throbbed, my feet pulsed, a sharp burn radiated from my right hip, and my shoulders locked into ache.

I knew I couldn’t make it to the family dinner for Nick’s parents’ birthdays and drive Fabio to the airport. I tried to will myself into it, but the thought of sitting in a noisy restaurant while my body screamed and my mind spun with grief was unbearable. Driving Fabio to the airport had to be the priority.

Would anyone else understand?

Nick went to dinner with his family, celebrating before their European holiday. I stayed home, hoping someone might return soon to keep me company, but also secretly grateful for the quiet between performances.

When Fabio returned from his last day exploring this city we’d both been transplanted into, I was thrilled. We had one-on-one time while he packed; reminiscing, laughing, talking about who he’d see when he got home, how much we’d miss each other. Then he told me the man he’d been seeing would come to the airport with us. He wanted to say goodbye there.

I know it’s selfish, but I hated that boy in that moment. Didn’t he know I needed to say goodbye too? That we had a plan? I’d given Fabio space all day, when was it my turn? I was supposed to have one last night alone with him, to tell him how much his friendship meant. That he’s my family. Don’t we deserve a final night together, unburdened by other people?

I tried to keep my face composed, but the grief was too sharp. I excused myself and let the panic wash over me again. I lay in bed, listening to Fabio quietly moving around, packing—knowing it would be the last time I heard him.

This isn’t just sad for me, I told myself. It’s hard for him too. He’s leaving everyone—and that kind of ache runs deeper than anything my body could feel.

Eventually, two friends came over. I napped and set my alarm for midnight, hoping I’d have enough strength for a little more time with him. When I woke to his laughter, a pang shot through me; sadness that I wouldn’t wake up to that sound again. Guilt that I couldn’t be out there making him laugh. Jealousy that he’d grown closer to people who weren’t me, over these months I’ve spent bedridden. And guilt again, because he deserves a better friend than I’ve been.

I stayed in bed, listening to the rise and fall of voices in the next room. Laughter, footsteps, the clink of glasses. I imagined Fabio smiling, animated, surrounded by people who still had energy to give. I wanted to be one of them. I wanted to be the kind of friend who shows up fully, who doesn’t disappear when things get hard. But my body had already called time.

I thought about all the goodbyes I hadn’t said. The ones I’d rehearsed in my head but never voiced. How do you thank someone for being your lifeline without making it sound like a burden? How do you say you saved me without making them feel responsible for keeping you afloat?

When the time came, he wheeled his suitcases out and held his hand toward me. I opened mine, and he dropped his house key into the center of my outstretched palm. It burned as I curled my fingers around it.

Oh. This is real now. Fabio leaving is real.

I wasn’t ready. I needed more time. My arm ached from holding it out so long, but I didn’t move. When I finally let it fall to my side, I started negotiating with myself: Just keep your composure until you can turn around. Let them think the only pain you feel is about your friend leaving.

We piled into Nick’s small SUV—Fabio’s two suitcases in the boot, somehow containing more than two years of life. Nick and I in the front. Fabio in the middle back, flanked by two friends.

I tried to keep the mood light, cracking jokes at my own expense to keep from crying. I hope he understood. His leaving isn’t funny. But if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

Big, ugly, guttural tears.

At the airport, we walked Fabio to his check-in counter. The line looked long, so Nick and I checked another desk to see if his parents were nearby. As luck would have it, they were. I’d get to say happy birthday and bon voyage after all.

Then the panic hit again.

I was masking hard. Will they think I just didn’t want to go to dinner? Will they believe I’m unwell? Am I unwell or am I just lazy? Should I try to calm my energy down since I missed dinner?

Too late. They’ve spotted us and are walking over.

My mask tightens its grip. If I let it slip, I’ll fall apart in the middle of the airport.

I still have to say goodbye to Fabio.

Did we tell them he was moving? Do they think I care more about him than them? Do I care more about him than them? Does it matter?

Keep it together, Ainslie. Don’t let anyone know you’re spiraling. Ignore the pain. This will all be over soon.

My in-laws arrive with their travel friends. They comment on my absence at dinner. My MIL had messaged me three times that night; once to say she missed me, once with a photo, once to tell me where the car keys were in case we needed them. I hadn’t replied. I didn’t even look at them for 3 days.

I’m such a bad daughter-in-law.

And here I am, the life of the airport. Making jokes. Performing warmth. When I couldn’t even show up for dinner. When I couldn’t even respond to a text.

Fuck. I’m going to be paying for this all next week.

Fabio and his friends wander over. We’re as far as we’re allowed to go. Time to say goodbye.

I kiss my in-laws on the cheek, hug them, wish them a safe flight as they head toward security. Then I turned to Fabio.

His beautiful blue eyes glisten with love and sadness. My head rushes. I can’t handle it.

I hugged him hard. He whispered in my ear. We both teared up.

I tried to pull back, but he pulled me in again holding me with everything he had, his warmth flooding my body like air fills my lungs, as I breathed him in one last time.

I whisper back, It’s not goodbye. You’ll be at the wedding.

Nick and I have been engaged for three years. I know I won’t be able to get married unless a few of our key friends are there—our foundation.

Fabio finishes his goodbyes. Tears and tissues all around.

I stand there wondering:

Did I mean as much to him as he did to me?

Am I crying enough? Too much?

Too much?

What’s the right amount of upset to show?

Who is he going to miss the most?

There’s nothing like a goodbye to bring out the monster in me. I shouldn’t care about these things, why are they taking over my brain right now?

The four of us stand there, watching him walk away. He turns back to check that we’re still there. Again. And again.

We watch until he’s nothing but a speck.

Then gone.

As we made our way back to the car, you could feel the heaviness settle in. I knew I’d never see these people again. They weren’t exactly mine, but we were bound now by this moment, this shared goodbye, the ache of watching someone we all love walk away.

Thirty minutes in a car with someone you’ll never see again is strange. Quietly intimate. Stripped of small talk and future plans.

We had done the hard thing: keep space for someone we loved as they left. And now we were just four people in a car, bound by grief and the quiet intimacy of shared loss, as Elton John played softly in the background and my thoughts danced across everything the weekend had held.

When we pulled into our parking spot, I looked at Nick and felt a wave of quiet gratitude. He had done it all for me.

He stayed up Friday night, covering for me when I went to bed—subtly filling the space I left.

He joined me and my friend for a drink, encouraged me to walk, to move my body.

He went to dinner and made gentle excuses for my absence.

He came home, hung out with everyone, drove us to the airport at 2 a.m., paid for parking, and drove everyone home.

He worked the next morning. Not a single complaint.

Just silent resilience.

And companionship.

Nick made the bed and crawled in while I got my medicine ready.

¨ Room temperature needle

¨ Alcohol swab

¨ Band-Aid

¨ Hand sanitizer

¨ Wash hands

¨ Mantras

May as well brush your teeth.

Get ready for sleep.

Wait - still have to do the injection.

Okay, let’s do this, Ainslie. It can’t hurt more than this weekend has.

I didn’t feel the needle enter my abdomen. I was numb to everything. That’s how I knew tomorrow would be a potato day.

But I was afraid to fall asleep. My mind racing through everything I’ve said and done this weekend. What if I woke up and needed to ask more of Nick? This weekend had taken its toll on my body and my mind. I couldn’t keep asking him to step up. He’s only human. If I put too much pressure on him, I’m terrified he won’t turn into a diamond—but turn to dust instead.

My thoughts spiraled. My heart pounded with them.

Fuck. Why won’t this feeling of worthlessness leave me?

Eventually, sleep took me.

Sometimes the hardest part of chronic illness isn’t the pain or the fatigue.

It’s the guilt.

Guilt for not showing up.

Guilt for needing help.

Guilt for being the one who always cancels.

Guilt for being loved anyway.

But maybe guilt is just grief in disguise.

Grief for the life I imagined.

Grief for the version of me that could have danced through the weekend, laughed at every joke, hugged every friend, been present.

Grief for the goodbye I couldn’t give the way I wanted to.

And maybe, just maybe, that grief is love.

Love for my friend.

Love for my partner.

Love for the life I’m still trying to build, even if it looks different than I hoped.

So I’ll keep negotiating. Quietly. Gently.

With my body. With my mind. And with the world.

Because even if I can’t always show up the way I want to,

I’m still here.

Even if it’s a quieter version of me.

Ainslie Knight is an emerging memoirist and health storyteller, originally from small-town Canada and now based in Melbourne, Australia. Their writing explores invisible illness, grief, and the emotional choreography of care. Through personal essays, they seek to make the unseen visible and foster connection through vulnerability.