Someday. David Levithan

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СКАЧАТЬ think she would try to love me anyway. But because I’m the one who’s lived with it my whole life, I know better than her that it will never work.

      WL: Is that true?

      AA: Yes. Of course it’s true.

      WL: Are you sure? You are meant to be telling your truth here.

      AA: I know that it’s true.

      WL: “Know” is a strong word. You believe. You suspect. But can you really know?

      Calmly, I type:

      AA: By any rational measure, she and I cannot be together.

      WL: What does your heart say?

      AA: My heart wants it to be possible. But the universe isn’t governed by wants. Or even needs. Some things don’t work, no matter how much you want them to.

      WL: That is not truth. That’s theory. What do you want?

      AA: To be able to be with her.

      It hurts to say that. Fool fool fool.

      WL: What does she want?

      AA: I don’t know. I’m not her.

      WL: Why don’t you ask?

      AA: Because she’s there, and I’m here, and it’s better for us not to torture one another.

      WL: Did she tell you it’s better?

      I didn’t give her a chance. I didn’t want it to be a prolonged argument. I didn’t want the ending to ruin everything that came before. I wanted to leave her in the arms of someone who might love her for who she is—and who could love her day after day.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ