TAKING THE FIRST STEP

Sometimes, the right answer doesn’t come to you right away. Sometimes, waiting for the answer feels like standing at the edge of a curb deciding whether to cross the street or not, even when you know there aren’t any cars coming. And sometimes, you’ll find yourself sitting on your living room couch on a cloudy day in November and the answer will appear to you like the beacon you didn’t realize you needed. So when your boyfriend asks you the same question he’s asked at least 20 times in the last six months, you finally sense a shift.

“Do you still want to be in a relationship with me?” you hear him ask in that droning voice you used to find charming. You turn your head slowly, unable to properly look at him because you’re not wearing your contacts yet. You blink and squint, as if that will somehow transform the fuzzy shape of a person sitting before you. You’re able to make out his always rough appearance. Even in your blindness, you can tell he’s wearing the same grey athletic shorts he wears three times a week, the same cross-country tee that’s two sizes too small because he got it several years ago in high school, and the same dusty pair of Tevas squeaking against the vinyl floor. His audacity and fashion taste of a seventh grader getting thrown in your face the same way it has been for the last two years.

You open your mouth, prepared to give the same answer you’ve given at least 20 times in the last six months; but something stops you. You’re unable to say what you’ve conditioned yourself to say. The tiny maintenance worker in your brain has turned off the autopilot switch and you can’t help but inhale sharply–as if you’ve forgotten what true autonomy feels like.

Suddenly, the last two years of your life come flooding back into your mindscape. Have things changed that much in the last two years? Two years ago he was this stoic, mysterious figure who just appeared in your life one night after your performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. You saw him again two months later at a New Year’s Eve party hosted by a mutual friend, and back then you thought that you two had hit it off right away. It took several months for you to realize that you didn’t really hit it off, you were just hammered and the first thing with tits who would talk to him that night. You didn’t think anyone else would agree to be your midnight kiss anyways, so you took a chance on him.

You thought you were being bold by asking him if you could come over that night. You certainly didn’t think much of it when you could barely see his bedroom floor and you realized he didn’t have any bedsheets, not even a pillowcase. That next morning, you told yourself you were probably never going to see this guy again. After all, you couldn’t even remember his name. But then he made you breakfast, a romantic plate made up of a burnt everything bagel slathered in hot sauce. He told you he thought you were pretty and that he had fun. You thanked him, both for the bagel and the compliment, and lied through your teeth by saying you had fun as well. He asked for your number, and the rest is unfortunately history.

You think back to those first few months. That first date at a local Mexican restaurant which he paid for. The time you got a UTI and he immediately came over with a Gatorade and a bottle of cranberry pills. When he took you to the Van Gogh pop up exhibit just because you said that you wanted to go but couldn’t afford it. When you got COVID after the first week of talking and made him promise to not forget about you and he said he wouldn’t as long as you would do the same. You think about the first time he told you he loved you, three months in.

“I have a lot of love for you.” he chuckled, almost tripping as he started shimmying into his jeans.

“You have a lot of love for me?” you asked with a raised brow.

“Yeah, I…you just–” he stopped, laughing again. You used to find it so cute how he would laugh after almost every sentence. He finally looked up at you, a slightly solemn look settling on his generically handsome face. “I guess you could say I love you. Yeah, I love you.”

You blinked and inhaled deeply. No one has ever said it first to you before. You were always the one chasing after it. Those times when you finally thought you had found it, loudly proclaiming it for all the world to hear, it would disappear in an instant. Your words reserved for past lovers often floating away in the wind like unwanted dandelion seeds. Surely this must mean something, if someone was saying it to you first for once. You would have been a fool to throw it away like that. You nodded at him, allowing a smile to slowly form on your lips.

“I love you, too.” You whispered before climbing off the bed and wrapping your arms around his bare torso. At that moment, it felt like a scene from a movie. Looking back, he only said it to keep you around.

You then remember the months that had followed. How he was an hour late, and slightly tipsy, meeting your mom and brother for the first time. When he showed up to opening night of your play wearing red basketball shorts, a Greta Van Fleet tee, and open toed shoes and did not bring you any flowers. When he called you a bitch because you reminded him that he wasn’t a professional photographer. When he called you lazy for not cleaning the apartment, despite the fact that you had been bed-ridden for weeks from having strep, mono, and the flu all at the same time.

“Well, you weren’t sick before that and you’re still not cleaning.” he said to you.

“I think I’m depressed.” is all you can say, almost pleadingly. He rolled his eyes, turning back to his computer game.

“Even depressed people know how to scoop a litterbox.”

You remember the exact moment when you realized how much of a mistake it was moving in together, but the lease didn’t end for another year. So, you sucked it up and stayed silent. When he asked a year later if you wanted to renew the lease, and you said yes, to this day you still don’t know why.

It took awhile for your friends to admit how they really felt about him. They found him to be odd, sure, maybe a bit of an asshole at times. They never said anything to you, though. Every time you asked why, the answer was always the same.

“You seemed happy.”

Happy. Were you happy? Maybe at first. You were also stoned for a good chunk of your relationship. It wasn’t until you stopped smoking did the rose-colored glasses finally come off. But even then, you hesitated. Even when you started to hate him, you still couldn’t find the courage to break up with him. You felt that someone like him was what you deserved. You hated yourself so much that you stayed with someone you hated even more. You knew that the ugliness he caused in you was better to deal with than admitting that you had nothing else going for you at that time. He had become a part of you, much to your disdain. He was tethered to your soul, your protector from the cruel realities of the real world, your buoy to keep you from drowning. You knew that if you had left him, you wouldn’t know what to do without him.

Things weren’t getting any better, though. You kept telling yourself, as the months went on, that you would wait it out until things got better. This is what love was supposed to be, right? Sticking it out even when things got tough? That’s what you were raised with, after all. You didn’t know any other way. This is what you were conditioned to know.

It wasn’t until a friend of yours asked you how things were doing did you finally let it slip. The flood gates had opened and you couldn’t, or maybe didn’t want to, close them back up. You told them everything, leaving no details unchecked. When it was done, your friend stared at you in shock. They asked you why you were still with him.

“I…” You had paused, searching for another excuse. And finally, for once, you realized you couldn’t think of one. You look up at your friend, exhausted. “I don’t know.”

So, it was decided. And a day later, when he asked that same question he had asked at least 20 times in the last six months, you knew exactly what you had to do.

“Do you still want to be in a relationship with me?” he asks, his tone dripping with the same arrogance it had been the entirety of the relationship. His way of asking felt like he knew exactly what you were going to say. He was ready to consume even more of your being, like an annoying blackhole, no matter how long it took. It only fueled the fire within you.

“No, I really don’t.” you say with a quiet confidence. In your blindness, without your contacts, you can see him sit back in slight surprise. You feel a surge of satisfaction at his response. When you tell him to get out and stay with his parents until the lease is up, you feel free. The stress of the relationship lifts off your shoulders and for the first time in two years, you don’t feel scared to face the world alone. The answer doesn’t always come to you right away. But that doesn’t mean you’re going to get it by sitting around and waiting for it. Every time, you have to take that first step.

Maida Dippel is a 26 year old freelance writer based in St. Louis, MO. She began a love for writing at a young age, spending her time scribbling fantasy inspired short stories in her notebooks. After taking a brief break from her education, Maida is now working her way towards earning a BA in Creative Writing. This is the first time a work of hers has ever been published.