Ghost in the Mirror
The first time I saw it, I wished I could let it be forever. Three days later, I couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.
“Thank You for Loving Me” was scrawled across my bathroom mirror in cheap soap. My heart warmed and I couldn’t hide my smile if I wanted to. It was a sign of how we had grown, how you had opened yourself up to accept what I had to offer. It was a signal that you were willing to accept me — to acknowledge us beyond the walls of our bedrooms. It was a message of our love. A message I had been waiting for.
Thursday, before you left for the holidays, you told me we couldn’t say “I love you” enough. You were doing laundry as I was making dinner. You called me over. I peered around the corner.
“I love you,” you said.
“That’s all?” Hell of a reply. As much as I enjoyed those words from your mouth, I mocked you for expressing your feelings for me.
“Hey! We can’t say that enough. We can’t say ‘I love you’ enough.”
A few minutes passed and I found my way back to you.
“Hey. I love you.”
“That’s cool,” you almost-slyly muttered, failing to mask your giddiness in returning the burn.
Thursday you told me we couldn’t say “I love you” enough. Sunday you called and said we needed to talk.
In the week before you left, we talked about your ex. You told me he’d been appearing in your dreams and that when you were home, you were going to talk.
“He kept saying, ‘We can be friends. We can be friends,’” you said. “I need to see him, figure things out.”
I did what the trusting boyfriend should do.
“Of course, love. Whatever you need to do.”
There was something deep inside that told me it wouldn’t turn out in my favor.
I had been joking with friends before you left that the previous two times you left town, we split up upon your return. Each time felt disingenuous. You said you did it to protect me, to protect our friendship. I felt it was to protect yourself. That’s why this time was different. You were more open and accepting of us. We were stronger than before.
There were times when you were protecting me, under the guise of protecting yourself. You would never use his name when we spoke. You just called him, “The One Who Sends Me Music.” You told me he started sending you new tracks. Each song on his new album was about you. Every one of them. You never used his name. At first, I thought it was for your own protection. I quickly figured out it was for mine.
Thursday you said we couldn’t say “I love you” enough. Sunday, you said you had to follow your heart.
I could hear the tears, the genuine pain in your heart. You didn’t want to hurt me, you said, but we both knew that wasn’t possible. Something was pulling you home, toward him. You missed your flight and the party you were supposed to attend upon arrival. You woke up in the middle of the night and were compelled to check your Facebook. There was a message from someone saying he was looking for you. In your dreams, in your deepest of sleep, he was calling to you and you had to answer.
I was surprisingly mature about it. “I understand,” I said. I did understand, but I still felt deceived. “I just want you to be happy.”
“Thank You for Loving Me” was scrawled across my bathroom mirror in cheap soap. What was once a beacon of unity now read as a sick consolation. A message of love now carried a mocking tone, as if to say, “I appreciate your affection, but mine belongs to someone else.”
I left it for a few days. First, it was still a comforting acknowledgement of our relationship. I did love you and you did love me. But you also loved someone else. You loved him more.
Tuesday after work and a day of drinking my feelings away and another of actually sitting with them, I wiped the mirror clean. “Thank You for Loving Me.” Yeah, I thought. You’re welcome…
Now, with each hot shower, the steamed mirror reveals the ghosts of our past. Forever etched in cheap soap residue, always to return with the condensation. The sight usually swells my eyes, thinking of the span of 60 hours that went from “We can’t say ‘I love you’ enough” to “We need to talk.” But, it also brings a smile to my face, a reminder of mornings spent intertwined, or spontaneous trips up to the redwoods. It’s a reminder of our time together, the bond we share.
“Thank You for Loving Me.”
Hey, you’re welcome. Any time.
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Image by Alejandro Giacometti
