“Thantphobia (n.) -The phobia of losing someone you love.”

- Sent by

I get home and I am really hungry. I open the fridge and take out two eggs to make an omelette for myself. I toast two pieces of bread and make a cup of coffee.

I am devouring my breakfast when Mom walks in.

“Mhm, the kitchen smells so good,” Mom says in a sleepy voice. I laugh genuinely.

“What are you doing up so early?” Mom asks, rubbing her eyes. It’s six-fifty in the morning, and I am eating breakfast like a pig.

“I went for a run, and I am hungry,” I say, shoving in a toast.

“Since when do you run?” Mom says, raising an eyebrow. She is really surprised.

I never go for a run. Okay, I get that Mom.

“Since today,” I reply, eating my omelette.

“Alright.” Mom makes coffee for herself and sits down opposite of me. She scans my face.

“You want to say something?” I ask, looking down at my food.

Mom shakes her head as she sips her coffee. Then she finally says, “You didn’t sleep last night, did you?”

I stop eating and stare in front of me. Then I look at her.

Mom sighs, “Come here.”

I go near my mom as she stands up and hugs me, “It’s gonna be okay, honey.”

“I know,” I say, hugging her back.

When I lean back, Mom looks at me and says, “You know when you were born, you were this little girl with big eyes staring up at everyone. Usually babies cry a lot, but you, you would just look at people, as if trying to figure everything out.”

“Really?” I say.

“Yeah. You grandfather was telling everyone that some day you would grow up as a smart young lady. He was looking down at you. You were in his arms staring up at him.”

I smile a little.

“You know what you did next?” Mom asks. She chuckles.

“Please let it not be what I think it is,” I say.

“You threw up,” Mom says. She can't stop laughing.

“Why is it always me throwing up? God.” I say as I facepalm.

Mom shakes her head. I roll my eyes and go back to my chair. I finish my breakfast.

I go to my room. I take out the scrunchy that holds my ponytail together. I stare at my face.

I am okay.

I brush my hair, slowly and gently. It’s longer than I would want it to be. Maybe I will cut it. After I am done with my hair, I go to the washroom. I fill up the tub so I can take a bath.

After having a bath, I look at my nail polish supplies. I want black. I need that color.

Maybe I don’t. So I try a nude shade instead.

I left the lake today. I am not going back there. I have no reason to. It is the only place where I allow myself to be weak. I won’t be weak anymore. I will never go back there again.

As Mom talked about me being a little child, it reminded me of the dreams I had when I was young. The little me was quite a girl. She was smart and quick, she had big dreams and she was determined she would take over the world one day.

I owe a lot to her. She deserves better.

The most important conversation you can have is the one you have with yourself. I keep telling myself I am strong. Then I allow myself to let go and sabotage myself.

The lake was the place where I gave up. Every time I go there, I am reminded of the fact that I can give up again. I have that choice.

No, I don’t. Letting go isn’t a choice for me.

I have seen the end. I have learned to fight again, and I won’t give up. I have promised that to myself.

I won’t keep going back to the place that reminds me of my failure.

I look at my fingernails. They look pretty. I blow on them, and I start applying the same color on my toes.

I made my way from that day to here by telling myself again and again that I can do this. That I am strong.

The thing is, if you keep telling yourself something that you don’t believe in, someday you will start to.

If you keep telling yourself you are ugly, you are weak, you are worthless, you don’t deserve it, you want to give up—you’ll believe it.

So why wouldn’t I try telling myself the opposite?

All of these are the thoughts inside my head, good and bad.

If I can repeat my self-sabotaging thoughts again and again, then maybe I can repeat the opposite words every day as well.

I am telling myself that I am okay. I am fine. I am better. I can do this. Again and again. Again and again. Until I end up believing it.

Until these sentences become the truth for me, although I don’t believe in it now. Although sometimes I hate lifting myself up, I hate being the only person I can turn to, being my only friend.

That is the truth: I am my only friend.

I only have me. I can either be my enemy, or be my friend. It’s my choice.

I choose not to let myself down. I choose to try to accept who I am and love myself the same way I love others.

It sounds corny. It sounds ironic. And most of all, it sounds impossible.

But it is the only choice I have.

I already know I refuse to give up.

*****

Winter break is hard, I am not going to lie. I wish I had more work to do. Christmas comes and goes. I get gifts from both Mom and Dad. I call Sam. He sends me virtual hugs. Insert an eye roll here.

I finish all my homework. As I have nothing else to do, I study in advance the topics we will study when school opens. I reread some books from my bookshelf. I buy some new books.

At night, when I go to bed, it gets hard. Some nights I can’t fall asleep. I need to get away. I need something to do when I can’t sleep and my thoughts get louder. Some days, it’s just easier to let go than fight. I get tired.

Then one day while going through my laptop, I find my old file of novels. I started writing it, and I never finished it. I left it midway. I think about the words I have written.

Maybe it can be an escape.

My writing will never kill me. It can save me.

Maybe in my book, Amelia will hurt herself. She will give up. She will destroy herself, and that’s how she will save me.

So when I can’t take it anymore, I turn to Amelia. I write. My words flow. I never knew I could write. But I am doing it now. I am putting out my feelings while I type, and my feelings are Amelia’s feelings.

She saves me day after day. It is the only way I cope. I don’t care if I will ever let anybody read it or not. I know I need to write.

Some days, I don’t feel happy, I don’t feel sad, I feel things that can only be described with words.

Days pass, and soon the school opens. I have to go back. I find myself getting ready to go to school.

I go to my classes. I submit my homework. I surprise Sean by answering Ms. Terrington’s question before he does. When he looks at me, I smile.

I sit with the nerds during lunch, and I join their conversation. When lunch is over, and we are getting ready to leave for class, I do something I have never done before.

“Hey, Sean,” I say. “I have a question.”

Sean glances at me. “Yeah, ask away.”

I open the notebook I am carrying with me. I am doing calculus. Our teachers haven’t yet taken a class on the topic that I am going through, but I am pretty sure Sean already did it.

“I don’t know how to solve this problem. Can you show me?” I ask him.

Sean looks at my copy. “Yeah, sure.”

Sean solves the problem in a minute. Then he runs me through the whole process, breaking it down for me.

“Wow, that was easy,” I say, once I understand it.

“Yes, actually it is,” Sean says.

“Thanks,” I say, looking at my copy.

“What’s great is that the next ten problems are exactly like this one. So, now you can solve them too,” Sean says.

I light up. “Really?”

“Aha,” Sean says.

“That’s great. We should go to class now,” I say.

Sean and I head towards class. He tells me about the book on mathematics that he was reading. I listen to him blabbering. I don’t mind it.

School keeps me busy that week. I go to school, I do my classes, I finish my homework.

I don’t see much. I don’t feel much.

I like it this way.

On Sunday, when I am about to delete Instagram from my phone because I don’t use it anymore, I see a notification and it stops me.

Fayethrasher followed you.

What? How? Why?

I stare at my phone screen. I refresh and check my followers. Yes, she is following me.

I go to her account. It’s a new account. There aren’t many photos in there, just a few photos of her with her friends.

Why did she follow me?

I do something next that I think I will regret. I follow her back, and I do something further.

I send her a text.

Hi.

And not even a second passes when I see the bubbles on the other side. Faye is typing.

What is wrong with this world?

Hi, she texts back.

I ask her how she’s doing. She says she’s great, and she asks me how I’m doing. I say the same. Then we start talking about random things.

Just like that.

We talk about the recent songs Faye has listened to. I ask her about her crushes, because I’m extra. She tells me she’s in love with Lana Del Rey. I tell her how I never listen to mainstream music. We talk about trash movies.

It seems like I have gone back in time.

When I look at the clock two hours have passed.

That was strange. Strangely good.

Mom calls me for dinner, so I say goodbye to Faye. She says she will talk to me soon.

I have dinner with my parents. I listen to them talking about news. I tell them about school.

When I come back, I have another text from Faye.

I am sorry.

I stare at the screen.

Faye says sorry.

My heart clenches as I stare at the screen. As I look at the message, I see her typing again.

I am so sorry, Gwen, that we stopped talking. I am so happy that you texted me first.

I don’t know what to say to that. I need to reply because she knows I have seen it.

So without thinking much, I type back.

It’s okay. No problem.

Faye: You don’t know how bad I feel that we stopped talking like that. I am so sorry that somehow we fell apart.

We didn’t stop talking like that. You said words. Words that haunt me to this date, Faye.

Then I realize she doesn’t remember that. She doesn’t remember what she said. She thinks we just stopped talking.

And that’s why she’s sorry.

Not because of the words she said, but because she stopped talking, because we fell apart.

We didn’t fall apart.

I feel a lump in my throat.

It’s a fact that, when we say words to people, we don’t know how much it will affect them. We forget it. But the people who listen, who are affected, never forget it.

Maybe I have said something to someone. I don’t remember that. I only remember what happened to me.

It’s fine, I reply. I say goodnight to her. I lie back on my bed.

Have I forgiven her?

It has been so long. So long.

I am so tired of carrying around this grudge. It is bringing me down.

I do forgive her.

Her words may never leave me. Maybe I will forget them. Maybe I won’t. But I forgive her.

I am done. I am done carrying around the hurt that I got from Faye, from Claire, from Dean.

I am so tired.

Maybe I need to forgive myself first. I need to forgive myself for letting other people let me down.

The biggest grudge is the grudge I hold against myself. And that is why I need to forgive myself first.

And when I think, I forgive the Gwen who made friends, who got hurt and who hurt herself because she got hurt, I feel like my heart is full.

*****

The next day, I am at my locker. I take books out and stuff them in my backpack. When I turn around, I see Faye. She stops by my locker.

“Hey, Gwen.” She smiles her hundred-watt smile.

I smile back immediately. “Hey, Faye.”

“Did you listen to the songs I told you to?” she asks me immediately. She suggested a few songs to me last night.

“Okay, I did. I loved a few of them,” I say. Faye jumps in excitement. We start walking around as we talk.

We leave the hallway, and there’s still 10 minutes left before our classes start. We make good use of the time by chatting.

“No, I absolutely did not like that movie. The guy dies in the end,” I shake my head. “No freaking way.”

“But you know it has a story, unlike many other mainstream movies,” Faye argues.

“I like mainstream movies better,” I say shaking my head. “I’d rather watch Ironman than watch a romantic movie where the guy dies at the end. I refuse.”

Faye makes a face. Some things never change. She never liked my opinion much.

We hear the bell ring. I am standing in front of my class.

Faye looks at me. “I guess I will see you around.”

I shrug. We might have chatted for two hours straight last night, and a good half an hour today, but that doesn’t mean Faye is my friend again. She and I both know that.

“Yeah,” I say.

“I gotta go. Bye.” Faye leaves.

I wish we were friends.

I wish nothing had ever happened.

I wish that when we talked, I didn’t feel the pressure to keep talking, keep blabbering. I wish I didn’t feel nervous when I could not find something to talk about.

I wish I was fine.

I shake my head and enter my class.

I am grateful we are not friends again, because I can’t take that pressure every single day.

Maybe it’s better this way.

Some wounds are not supposed to be healed. All you can do is pretend they were never there in the first place.

*****