avantgarde_muse [2.3] Watching Him Go and just_muse_me [10.4.1] Escalate
So I let you go
And I watch you leave
And I hold my breath
So you don't hear me scream
When you walk away
But the words are only in my head
It's not what I said
It's what I didn't say
"I'm leaving the band," he says to me, meeting my eyes firmly. He's so much taller than me; I have to tip my head nearly all the way back to keep my gaze fixed on his. His eyes, two usually wide open windows to his soul, are dark and guarded like boarded up windows on a house preparing for a hurricane. I can't tell what he's thinking; I can't tell what he's feeling; I can't read him at all. And I hate it.
"What?" I ask quickly. He barely finished getting the words out before I jumped on his admission. "No, no, no. You can't, Tristan; I need you." I can hear my words run together as I scramble to get him to take it back, to say he was just making a cruel joke. But he doesn't.
"I can't work like this," he gestures at the studio, at nothing in particular and everything at the same time. "I...don't know if we're coming or going."
"No, we're coming. We're coming, Tristan." I sound panicked. I never sound like this. Taking his hand, I pull him into the room adjoining the studio. It used to be an office that we converted into a lounge. The old, orange sofa is frayed at the corners and smells like eucalyptus; we bought it at a second-hand store in Queens. My heart races and I'm sure he can hear it. I'm waiting for him to comment on it.
He waits until the door clicks closed before saying, "Are we, Kaitlyn, because you're doing your damnedest to ignore me. Do I even exist in your world anymore?"
The thing is, I've been waiting for him to comment on this, too. I've been pushing and pushing and pushing him away. I knew if i pushed hard enough, he'd leave. But I timed it wrong. He should have left a long time ago. Not now. Not now that I want him back. Not now that it's too late for everything.
I blink my eyes and quickly turn my head away. He can't see me cry. I cry so easily now. "Tristan, I..." I'm sorry, I finish in my head. I swallow my tears and look at him again. He's still closed off and dark. I study his eyes and I realize the darkness there is anger. I don't blame him for being mad at me. Taking a breath, I try again: "You're right to want to leave." But I wish you wouldn't.
"Will you at least tell me his name?" he asks, changing the subject, but I don't follow his thoughts.
"Whose name?"
"The guy you've been seeing. He's the father, right?" I must look like a deer caught in headlights because Tristan grabs a copy of the Post from the coffee table. He flips to the page and shoves the article at me. "A buddy of mine showed it to me. I read the whole article. You were seeing him before we broke up, weren't you?"
I take the paper from him but I've already seen it, too. I throw it back on the coffee table, sending pages flopping to the floor and magazine inserts flutter off the table. I'm making more of a scene than I had planned. This is quickly spiraling out of control and I'm just letting it. Before I know it, I'm screaming at him, "Are you seriously fucking stupid enough to believe that shit? Tristan, it's a fucking tabloid!"
"So look me in the eyes and tell me it's not true," he says. His voice is unnervingly calm. I know he's testing me, daring me. I know the right answer and the right answer is what he wants to hear. But I don't say anything. My silence is convicting me of a crime I didn't commit and I'm allowing it to happen. I'd rather he believe a lie than know the truth. I want him to think I'm still clean. At least if he thinks I'm just a deceitful girl, there's still the potential to patch things later. Tell him the truth and nothing will fix his opinion of me.
I meet his eyes, but still I remain quiet. It's not true. I'm sorry I left you. This time, he looks away. "I can't believe you, Kaydee," he says softly. I'm almost not sure he said anything except I was watching his face as he spoke. He sounds broken, betrayed, black.
And I'm still quite for a few more moments. I follow his eyes down. He's looking at the photo in the newspaper. I wonder what he sees when he looks at it. Does he see what I see? Does he see the dirty whore? Does he see the whale? I look back at his face and I'm overwhelmed with the desire to crawl into his arms. I want to feel safe for the first time since that night. But I don't want to be touched.
"If you're going to leave, then do it," I tell him, forcing myself to be cold. I'll cry when he leaves but for now, the facade has to stay up. He pulls his eyes from the photo and looks at me again.
"Bye, Kaydee," he says. His voice is still soft and I want to melt. I want to let the ice in my core melt with his words. I stay silent as he turns and opens the door. He leaves without another word, without a backward glance. In my head, I'm screaming at him. I don't want you to leave! I need you. But he can't hear me.
And I watch you leave
And I hold my breath
So you don't hear me scream
When you walk away
But the words are only in my head
It's not what I said
It's what I didn't say
"I'm leaving the band," he says to me, meeting my eyes firmly. He's so much taller than me; I have to tip my head nearly all the way back to keep my gaze fixed on his. His eyes, two usually wide open windows to his soul, are dark and guarded like boarded up windows on a house preparing for a hurricane. I can't tell what he's thinking; I can't tell what he's feeling; I can't read him at all. And I hate it.
"What?" I ask quickly. He barely finished getting the words out before I jumped on his admission. "No, no, no. You can't, Tristan; I need you." I can hear my words run together as I scramble to get him to take it back, to say he was just making a cruel joke. But he doesn't.
"I can't work like this," he gestures at the studio, at nothing in particular and everything at the same time. "I...don't know if we're coming or going."
"No, we're coming. We're coming, Tristan." I sound panicked. I never sound like this. Taking his hand, I pull him into the room adjoining the studio. It used to be an office that we converted into a lounge. The old, orange sofa is frayed at the corners and smells like eucalyptus; we bought it at a second-hand store in Queens. My heart races and I'm sure he can hear it. I'm waiting for him to comment on it.
He waits until the door clicks closed before saying, "Are we, Kaitlyn, because you're doing your damnedest to ignore me. Do I even exist in your world anymore?"
The thing is, I've been waiting for him to comment on this, too. I've been pushing and pushing and pushing him away. I knew if i pushed hard enough, he'd leave. But I timed it wrong. He should have left a long time ago. Not now. Not now that I want him back. Not now that it's too late for everything.
I blink my eyes and quickly turn my head away. He can't see me cry. I cry so easily now. "Tristan, I..." I'm sorry, I finish in my head. I swallow my tears and look at him again. He's still closed off and dark. I study his eyes and I realize the darkness there is anger. I don't blame him for being mad at me. Taking a breath, I try again: "You're right to want to leave." But I wish you wouldn't.
"Will you at least tell me his name?" he asks, changing the subject, but I don't follow his thoughts.
"Whose name?"
"The guy you've been seeing. He's the father, right?" I must look like a deer caught in headlights because Tristan grabs a copy of the Post from the coffee table. He flips to the page and shoves the article at me. "A buddy of mine showed it to me. I read the whole article. You were seeing him before we broke up, weren't you?"
I take the paper from him but I've already seen it, too. I throw it back on the coffee table, sending pages flopping to the floor and magazine inserts flutter off the table. I'm making more of a scene than I had planned. This is quickly spiraling out of control and I'm just letting it. Before I know it, I'm screaming at him, "Are you seriously fucking stupid enough to believe that shit? Tristan, it's a fucking tabloid!"
"So look me in the eyes and tell me it's not true," he says. His voice is unnervingly calm. I know he's testing me, daring me. I know the right answer and the right answer is what he wants to hear. But I don't say anything. My silence is convicting me of a crime I didn't commit and I'm allowing it to happen. I'd rather he believe a lie than know the truth. I want him to think I'm still clean. At least if he thinks I'm just a deceitful girl, there's still the potential to patch things later. Tell him the truth and nothing will fix his opinion of me.
I meet his eyes, but still I remain quiet. It's not true. I'm sorry I left you. This time, he looks away. "I can't believe you, Kaydee," he says softly. I'm almost not sure he said anything except I was watching his face as he spoke. He sounds broken, betrayed, black.
And I'm still quite for a few more moments. I follow his eyes down. He's looking at the photo in the newspaper. I wonder what he sees when he looks at it. Does he see what I see? Does he see the dirty whore? Does he see the whale? I look back at his face and I'm overwhelmed with the desire to crawl into his arms. I want to feel safe for the first time since that night. But I don't want to be touched.
"If you're going to leave, then do it," I tell him, forcing myself to be cold. I'll cry when he leaves but for now, the facade has to stay up. He pulls his eyes from the photo and looks at me again.
"Bye, Kaydee," he says. His voice is still soft and I want to melt. I want to let the ice in my core melt with his words. I stay silent as he turns and opens the door. He leaves without another word, without a backward glance. In my head, I'm screaming at him. I don't want you to leave! I need you. But he can't hear me.