Time is Tricky

“Time is tricky. You have whole months, even years, when nothing changes a speck. When you don’t go anywhere, or do anything, or think one new thought. And then you can get hit with a day, or an hour, or half a second when so much changes it’s almost like you got born all over again into some brand-new person you for damn sure never expected to meet.”  

- E.R. Frank, Life is Funny

I remember a piece of our conversation one of the nights we had stayed up late painting. Somehow we had managed to get on the subject of death and what would happen after.  We talked about how the scariest part of dying was the fear of being forgotten after we were gone. I thought back to that night and that conversation as I sat across from his friend; my friend now, as he explained how he was frustrated with running into people who did nothing but bring him up at the first opportunity they got. He didn’t want to talk about it anymore and just wanted everyone to stop bringing up his death so he could move on. Why couldn’t people move on? Because at some point we all needed to move on. 

I stared at him, my slight smile was genuine, but filled with a hidden pain that I couldn’t express, knowing he wouldn’t understand. No one did. I didn’t even fully understand myself anymore, how could I expect anyone else to?  But if I was sure about one thing, it was that I didn’t want to get over it.  I didn’t want to ever forget him. I didn’t want to stop bringing him up at every chance that I got, even when I could tell people were unsure of how to respond or felt uncomfortable when they heard my voice crack with the threat of emotion. But the more that time creeped it’s way between us and furthered the distance in my mind from the memories of him, causing them to become foggier with each day that passed, the more I felt the immense need to speak his name out loud.  I couldn’t stand the thought of him becoming “that one friend, that we once knew, that died that one time, in that crazy situation, with that one guy that no one could really remember.” No, I couldn’t let that happen. 

It was only 8am when I stared at my plate in admiration of the vibrant food it held, but the energy and buzz of the room made it feel much later in the day.  I was feeling endless regret over the shoes I had chosen to wear with my dress, and was even more upset with myself for the way I had decided to style my hair - I felt ugly and it was the last thing I needed walking into a room where every person with perfectly styled ensembles already made me feel inferior and like I didn’t deserve to be there. I attempted to ignore my overwhelming self-consciousness and instead tried to focus on enjoying the experience I was lucky enough to have.  Underneath my negativity and dwindling self esteem, it felt like somehow, amongst my seemingly endless string of bad luck, I had won the lottery.  I wanted to document every moment.  I don't even know how many photos I took of my plate before I found the right angle and enough satisfaction to post to social media. Surrounded by beautiful people in every direction I looked, I told myself to keep my shoulders straight and my chin up - If I appeared confident on the outside, maybe I would start to feel confident on the inside again. My smile was tight and forced, and I ignored my food while I stressed over what I would comment under the photo I posted. I was having fun wasn’t I? My life looked fabulous didn’t it? So why was it so hard for me to express in words?  

I hadn’t even tasted my food when my phone began to buzz in my hand.  I didn’t recognize the number, but that would have never stopped me. I slid the green icon across the glass screen of my iPhone and said hello.  If they were calling me, there had to be a reason - The growing severity of my anxiety would never allow me to miss out on the opportunity to know what someone had wanted from me and why they had called me to begin with. It was his work, a girl with a basic name on the other end of the line. She was calling to see if I had spoken to him, the concern in the her voice apparent.  He hadn’t shown up for his shift and I was listed, along with his mother as his emergency contact.  Seeing as how I was noted as his friend and roommate, I was the first number she chose to call, not wanting to spark any unnecessary worry with his family.  But I was out of town for work I had told her, and my friend had probably just slept in - Had she tried calling his phone a few times incase he forgot to set his alarm?

Her words were calculated with an apparent attempt to sound calm, but I felt her energy through the phone and it scared me. She told me that she had tried calling me yesterday, but my phone had gone straight to voicemail, which was full, so she couldn’t leave me a message.  

I had failed to fully charge my phone and had allowed it to die for several hours the previous day, which would explain why I hadn't gotten her call, but why had she called me yesterday if he hadn’t shown up for work today? As I asked her, the pieces of what she was saying without actually saying them, started to slowly fall into place. That was the problem, she said quieter, answering the question I didn’t want her to actually answer anymore.  He hadn’t just not shown up today, but he hadn’t shown up the day before either, and although she was hesitant to reach out, she started to worry when she didn’t hear back from him.  It wasn’t until this morning that the fear of the unknown had started to set in and she felt compelled to call me. A nervous laugh escaped me and I assured her that this was not like him and he had probably just lost his phone or slept in. There had to be some explanation. Maybe he broke his phone. It was summertime, and on top of that, pride weekend had just passed.  I knew he had gone hard for a few days of celebration, even posting on his social media about how after the weekend he would need to bathe in holy water and sleep for a month. It was simple, I would call him and let him know to call her back, or I would call her back myself and let her know everything was okay. Because it would be. I didn’t have the capacity to allow for any other option.  

The plate of food stared at me and my heart thumped in my chest.  I was his emergency contact, but surly this wasn’t an emergency. I tried to rationalize the situation with anything I could think of. Maybe he messed up and slept in the day before and decided “fuck it,” and just didn’t show up again today.  I knew it was unlikely, but it was a possibility that and I clung to with everything I had in me. I hung up the phone and immediately called him. 

The girls at my table continued their superficial silence, phones in hand, snapping photos of absolute everything around them. Documenting the moments they wanted to expose as their fabulous life instead of just fucking living it. I hated them for the ignorance that surrounded them as they obliviously continued to stare at the glowing screens of their phones, food untouched and growing cold, as I internally lost control, reality sinking in with the sensation of slow knives. Had I been just like them, so fucking absorbed with my surroundings and snapping so many goddamn photos that I let my phone die and didn’t even notice I hadn’t heard from my friend in over 24 hours? That couldn’t be possible, could it?  We had texted all day, hadn’t we? Or maybe that had been the day before and I was just too wrapped up in everything else to notice? The line continue to ring until i got his voicemail, so I tried again. 

And again. 

And again. 

And again.

And again.

And again.

I sent him a text - call me.  And then another - you better have lost your fucking phone, that’s the only thing that will make this okay. But it wasn’t until I went to write a message to our friend asking if she had heard from him, that I noticed the unread message from her asking me the same thing.  It was that moment I knew something was really wrong.