Meet Me Under the Mistletoe

by Jenny Bayliss

“Oh, I’m sick of having to be the better person. Why is it always down to women to act like grown-ups and lead by example? I want equal rights to objectification.”

It hadn’t mattered that they hadn’t seen each other from one year to the next because she’d known he was in the world somewhere. And suddenly he wasn’t. She would never see him again; that option had been removed from the universe. It was almost unbearable. How could anything be so very final?

If she tried to speak, she might angry-cry, which was just the worst kind of cry because everyone assumed you were upset, when in fact you were so full of rage that if your tear ducts didn’t let out some pressure your head would explode.

Suicide was greedy; it didn’t just take your friend once—it kept coming back for more, taking and taking, so that your remembrances were always bittersweet.

“I have loved you for so long. Everything that happened before I knew you was merely a prelude to loving you. Everything that has happened since has been the result of my loving you. And I promise that everything in my future will revolve around loving you.”