Someday. David Levithan

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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.

      . . . failure. My pain is louder to me because it is inaudible to others. I don’t expect anyone to be able to help me. The world around me does not exist. I am alone in this, and if I could find a way to die alone, I would.

       Comment from MoBetter:

      You need to talk to someone. Get some help. There is always a way to treat pain. If there’s no one near you to talk to, the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline is 1-800-273-8255. Good luck.

       Comment from AnarchyUKGo:

      Just do it. Kill as many people as you want. Take all the stupid ones with you.

       Comment from 1derWomanFierce:

      Get out of your own head. It helps.

       Comment from PurpleCrayon12:

      I’ve had these thoughts, too. I think of it as the eclipse state. I found writing about it very helpful. Don’t keep it inside—express it. And MoBetter is right . . . you have to talk to someone. The fact that you’re posting about it is a good step. It shows you want to share the burden. And there are many loving and kind people out there who will willingly take some of the weight. Don’t think you’re alone.

       Comment from M:

      None of you understand.

RHIANNON

      I don’t know what I was thinking. Or, worse, I do know what I was thinking. I imagined the minute—no, the second—I posted that song, A would know I’d done it. I’d get an instant response. Because everything felt so instant when A was here.

      Stop. I know I have to stop. Listen to myself. Wonder: Was it really A I loved, or was it the intensity, the feeling that our orbit had grown so tight that it could fit into an atom—and would cause an explosion if we were to separate? How can Alexander compete with that? Why am I even thinking of it as a competition?

      Alexander is here. He wins.

      But I’m not sure that Alexander feels like he’s winning. Or that I’m much of a prize.

      It’s Saturday and we’re on our way to Will’s house for a picnic in his backyard. I should probably think of it as Will and Preston’s house, because ever since they started dating, Preston has been spending most of his time there. Alexander and I are bringing a fruit salad, which meant we had to go to the grocery store (“our first-date grocery store”) and buy about twenty-five dollars’ worth of fruit to chop up and put in a bowl.

      I’m driving and Alexander is looking at his phone, scrolling down his Facebook. I don’t even notice until he says, “Hey, why’d you put this song up?” He holds out his phone so I can see the link.

      “It’s just a song I like,” I tell him. “It was stuck in my head, so I decided to inflict it on other people.”

      “Oh? Cool.”

      He goes back to scrolling, not even checking the comments section to find the second song. And the stupid thing is that I am suddenly mad at him for not reading more into it . . . which is extra stupid because getting mad is exactly what Justin would have done. Justin would have taken it as an attack, even if he didn’t know what it meant. He would have attacked back.

      Maybe we inherit bad traits from our exes, just like we inherit bad traits from our parents, because out of the blue I find myself picking a fight with Alexander, saying, “Oh, cool—what does that even mean?”

      He doesn’t look up from his phone. “It means that I didn’t know you liked that song, but I’m perfectly happy that you do.”

      “I didn’t put it up there for your approval.”

      “I never said that you did.”

      I know I’m being the unreasonable one, and Alexander’s tone makes it clear that he knows it, too.

      I should say I’m sorry. A would say sorry. Justin would not say sorry. Alexander would say sorry. But I’m СКАЧАТЬ