The Way I Am Now (The Way I Used to Be)

by Amber Smith

We were always cold months, fall or winter. Seeing her bare arms and bare legs, her painted toenails— parts of her I’ve only known in the context of my bedroom—makes me long for the cold again.

For me it’s not nervousness; it’s more that every nerve ending seems to be coming alive in her presence, all at once.

remember almost immediately that for all her darkness, she can be just as bright, too.

“You think about me?” she asks, suddenly serious. “You know I do.”

but that word. Shame. Her voice sort of snags on it, like a thorn. It’s not a casual word you use if it’s not really there under the surface.

“I meant, how are you? Like, are you okay?” “It’s not like I really have a choice to not be okay. But I’m trying to be b-better,”

I close my eyes because this suddenly feels too intense, too much intimacy and realness, too much everything. I can’t take it.

It’s the opposite of disappearing. Like I’m more here than I’ve ever been anywhere at any time in my whole life.

It’s not his fault he makes the pain go away or the world disappear.

“It’s hard there. It’s hard to be there.

In this tiny, delicate space between us, I realize the wild rattling of my heart isn’t because it’s shattering. It’s because this is the best, the strongest, my heart has felt in months.

God, why does it always come to this, why is it never the right time for us?

“You can’t just disappear like that.” But I am, I think. I’m disappearing all the time. I’m disappearing right now. That’s all I ever do when I’m with you.

I hate when he gets mad—it’s dizzying and scary and makes me want to be small and back down. It makes me feel weak, which scares me more than anything else.

“Teddy bears are still bears,”

“It’s not you,” I call after her. “Really.” It’s not her. She’s not Eden.

I’m pulled through this murky darkness until I’m back there again. And it’s not Steve anymore; it’s not Josh. My wrists are pinned, twisted together, held so tight I’m afraid they’re slowly breaking. Again. Another hand around my throat. Again. A voice telling me to shut up. Again. I’m drowning. I can’t fight this. I struggle against him. Yell at him to stop—I think I do, at least. Not breathing. For too long, I’m not breathing. I’m drowning, I must be. And then, when I’m sure I’m going to just let go, sink, die, those hands holding me under release their grip, and I break the surface of the dark water, gasping, flailing.

If I speak, I might cry, so I just nod. Because I know what he’s talking about. He’s not Kevin. Of course he’s not. But he’s not Josh, either.

“I think you love the person you knew back then, the person you believe I can become again one day. But that’s not the same as loving me the way I am now.”