What It's Like in Words: A Novel

by Eliza Moss

I needed him to remember how much we wanted each other, to remember that no woman understood him like I did. Afterward, he fell asleep, but adrenaline hammered in my chest. He was back, he was here, he was mine. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t miss a moment.

But you’re not drama or intense—you’re you. I know, I’m explaining it wrong.

Listen, she said over the sound of the ice, I’m genuinely happy that things are going well, but I wish that it wasn’t you doing all the trying. I don’t want you prioritizing his happiness over yours. Happiness is so precarious, you know?

Ruth, I really am okay. I know. Dance with me anyway. And so I took her hand, and we began to dance, movements that built with each song until we were kicking and flailing like garage tube men on a gusty day to a “Sounds of the Sixties” playlist.

He was working in this pub we frequented when I was at the Old Vic. And even though we were a terrible couple, we stayed mates. My body went rigid. They dated?

I wanted to thrive, to feel about my relationship the way that I felt about my book when I was alone with it, not childish and silly, but like anything was possible.

dismissed Virinder with a noise, but, as I did, I realized how frequently I minimized my writing so as not to antagonize him. He didn’t want to write together anymore. He didn’t even want to talk about writing. I had stopped asking how his book was going, hoping he would volunteer the information when he was ready. But so far, he hadn’t, and the list of things that we didn’t talk about was growing longer.

Are you okay? I can’t be at a book thing right now. Is everything all right? No, it’s not all right, Enola.

His eyes shone, and instantly I was better than the person I was at the party because he wanted me again.

Tell him to buck up, she said. It shouldn’t make him feel less to see you thrive. Just tell him, Enola. I will!

Because I think that the problem isn’t whether or not I’m happy for you—which I am—the problem is that I didn’t show my happiness in the exact way that you wanted.

I’m a “privileged straight white man,” as everyone is so keen to remind me. No one cares how good my book is when my voice is worthless.

And you’re not trying to win the argument? Let’s recap. So far, you’ve attacked me for not throwing you a party about your news, which, considering the headspace I’m in, is pretty fucking selfish, and now you’re lecturing me about privilege? What do you mean by that? I mean, Enola, that it’s easy to drift around working in a coffee shop when you had a flat bought for you in central London.

I told you, Enola, I’m not your fucking therapist! I told him that I didn’t want him to be my therapist; I wanted him to be my partner. He said that he was trying to be, but that it was fucking hard sometimes. Oh god. My throat felt like something was squeezed around it. I curled into myself to be alone. What had my question been? When I felt the warmth of his hand on my back, I lifted back up. Honey, you’ve never been in a long-term relationship before, have you?

I shouted that his reaction to my news was upsetting. I shouted that I hated how he went from hot to cold. I shouted that I didn’t know how to talk to him. I shouted that I knew that Steph had feelings for him. I heard my high, strained voice and knew that I should shut up; I was in a hole and every word made the hole deeper and darker but I kept hopelessly searching for the right word to close the hole up.

You’re being a fucking cunt. I slapped him. He held my gaze and then slapped me with a force that propelled my face onto the bed.

I’m warning you, Enola, get off me right now. His face was purple. He shoved me into the door. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Please don’t leave me. I’m so sorry.

I didn’t want her to think that he was abusive, the same way that I didn’t want him to think that I was making myself the victim. It wasn’t like he hit me; it was a flat palm and I had slapped him first. He was only guilty of being a man.

Fine, she said. Where did you go on holiday? Kenya. She went very quiet and then said: You’re an adult, Enola, you can go on holiday wherever you want. Then she hung up and left me with all the same questions: Why do you hate me? And why did you leave me? Although presumably the first question answered the second.

I just had to keep him happy. He would stay with me as long as I made him happy.

He was working so hard. He had always wanted to be a writer. He should have this opportunity, but I did, and I knew how he felt about that. I wasn’t meaning to hold myself back but I just kept thinking if he could only finish his book first so that I could finish that little bit behind him

what I had done wrong. Why doesn’t he want me? But she kept changing the question: Why do you want him? I couldn’t think of anything specific; it was just an overwhelming desire: I wanted him. I needed him. I would die without him.

I’m really sorry that I ruined your birthday, I said. Don’t be. He still hadn’t said sorry for his actions. I thought about my own book.

if I handled the breakup perfectly then he might realize it was a mistake.

I reached into my bag and handed him the card. I wanted him to realize that he was walking away from someone who bought the good paper and colored inside the lines, but he just said thank you, then looked inconvenienced that it was so large. Actually, honey, do you want to just give this to me next time, as I’m out all day? He handed it back, and it was instantly a child’s drawing, strips of white where color should be and pencil markings that hadn’t been rubbed out.

I ranted about things he did that I now realized were manipulative. But despite my words, there was a voice in my head countering: The first time we had sex and he ignored my doubts? He’s not a mind reader. That time that he took over the risotto? I hate cooking. The times that he gaslit me about Steph? I was paranoid. Ruth shook water from her hands. I’m so happy to hear that, she said. It’s been killing me watching him do this to you.

She said if I wanted to show him that it was over, silence was the only way to do that. Otherwise, you’re still giving him the power! She said that by focusing on him, I made him responsible for my happiness. You need to look at your role in this, Laa.

Being surrounded by songs made me feel like my pain was normal, beautiful even,

I was trading my body for the hope of his heart, and he was saying yes to a cup of tea that he didn’t really want because someone else was making it.

was insane, and he looked at me like I had something stuck in my teeth and he was the only one willing to point it out. Enola, did it ever occur to you that if you feel insane there might be a reason? Are you calling me insane? He told me not to put words in his mouth and then opened his laptop and started writing as if I wasn’t there.

I had wanted this so badly. His body. His hands. His smell. But what was it that I actually wanted? Because the sex was never good, was it? It was just a period of time where I had him. It was addictive. It was control. But he didn’t want me and he wasn’t even pretending to.

as I closed my eyes, for the first time, I didn’t miss him.

I’m just so proud of you! And I know it’s been hard, everything with, you know. I honestly feel much better. I know, I can tell.

All summer, I wondered how this would feel. But his words didn’t have the same meaning. I was happy. I had finished my book. I was spending time with my best friend. The impulse to jump when he told me to was gone. I didn’t need to text him back. I didn’t want to text him back. So, what harm would it do if I did?

He then thanked me for giving him space. And, honey— He stopped walking and took my hands. I do want to be with you. I didn’t know what to say. Shouldn’t he have known at the time that he wanted to be with me? And when did he realize that the space he said he needed wasn’t about his book but about me? Or had he always known? Because I had known.

There were two voices in my head. The first screamed at me to leave while I was still strong. Maybe that was what I really owed to the version of myself sobbing on the bathroom floor. But the second was curious, addicted to seeing what I could get him to feel next.

I wasn’t unhappy, but I wasn’t happy either. We had been back together for a month and it did feel different, but I was waiting for it to change, waiting to say or do the wrong thing.

But this truce between me and him lasted only as long as we kept everything sweet. Nothing real could survive.

I said that I didn’t know how to be without him, but I didn’t know how to be with him anymore either. Emily laughed and said that our generation was so dramatic.

Ruth said that she was worried that he hadn’t changed. It’s a short time for someone to change, you know? I told her that she was probably right, but I needed him. She told me that I didn’t. You’re enough by yourself, Enola. You’ve always been enough. I fingered the photograph in my pocket. I told her that even if she was right, I still felt like I needed him.

You have to work to keep the dead alive, but no one helped me with Dad.

loved him more than I had ever loved anything. I wanted nothing but him.

But what if I ended it too early, Roo? Were you happy? I shook my head. No, you weren’t. You were terrified of breathing. And, Enola, let me tell you, when something is real, you can’t ruin it.

Virinder listens to me. Virinder asks what I want. Virinder makes plans for our future. Virinder loves me. Virinder’s only shortcoming is that he isn’t someone else and that’s not a problem anymore.

“No, I don’t want you to say thank you, Enola.” I grit my teeth. “Don’t you? Because whenever you do something nice for me you remind me that you’ve done it.” “Well, is it so bad to want someone to tell you that they appreciate you? Besides, I only told you about the wedding because I wanted you to know that I was all in, yeah? I’m still all in. So, if you’re not, then you need to stop this.” “Stop what?” “Leading me on!”

“What do you think, Virinder?” “I think I’m too nice for you and that’s not what you want.”

I was just too nice for her. It’s a clever weapon, really, because it’s such an innocuous word: “nice.” Nice guys deserve girlfriends. Nice guys are entitled to girlfriends. Nice guys earn girlfriends. Nice isn’t a personality trait or a characteristic; it’s an adjective for a tablecloth. It’s the bare minimum. It’s what women have to be or they’ll be called a bitch.

Why don’t you want to be happy?” I remember his words to me: Because you’re happier being miserable. Why is it that not being happy with them must mean that you’re not capable of happiness? I’m not happier being miserable. No one is happy being miserable.

“Virinder.” I say his name like I’m closing the argument. “We’re not the loves of each other’s lives. I don’t think you love me. You love giving love and there’s a difference.”

I think about how easy it must be to be a man sometimes.