but you're not a stranger

“I think about you all the time.”

“I don’t think about you.”

“I saw the website you made. The writing one. I think you made it so you could read everything I was posting. I knew it was you because of the name.”

“My name wasn’t on it.”

“I know.”

“So how did you know it was me?”

“I know all of your names, especially the ones he calls you. I told you. I think about you all the time.”

“That’s unsettling.”

“I thought you were going to steal some of my writing once.”

“I would never write like you.”

“I know you couldn’t.”

“Why would I steal your writing?”

“Why not? You’ve stolen everything else that was mine.”

“I didn’t...I admit I used to wish I could be you.”

“In looks or theory.”

“Everything comes so easily for you. I was never so lucky.”

“Did you ever read anything I wrote?”

“Only all of it.”

“Then you know it wasn’t easy.”

“You exaggerate the hard parts so people feel sorry for you, so that he has to stay.”

“Do you?”

“Feel sorry for you?”

“No, exaggerate the hard parts.”

“Every part of this is hard.”

“What did you get him for Christmas?”

“Why are you asking me that?”

“I don’t know, I guess I just wanted to know what you think of when you think of him.”

“I made him cookies, the ones his Nana used to make. I don’t exactly have extra money lying around.”

“I thought we were missing a cookbook. She would have liked you, you know.”

“Yeah, I bet. He gave it to me. It was a gift. It was his to give. What did you get him?”

“I wrote him a poem. Then I ripped it up and gave him underwear.”

“Why did you do that?”

“The poem or the underwear?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I like talking to you.”

“I guess I felt like if I gave him underwear, you would have to take it off, and it would be like I was in the room with you.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“Yeah, that’s why I ripped up the poem.”

“When he leaves you for me, will you let him be happy?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. It would be the most honest thing he has ever done.”

“Do you love him?”

“I love the idea of him.”

“Then why do you stay?”

“To prove a point.”

“What point is that?”

“That the first twenty-two years weren’t a lie.”

“I mean, weren’t they?”

“He would leave if he really wanted to, don’t you get that?”

“I worry sometimes.”

“I’m just the excuse.”

“What’s your excuse?”

“Excuse me?”

“For staying. What’s the real reason? I know it isn’t love. I read all your writing, remember.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re scared.”

“Aren’t you? I don’t want to explain myself to anyone else. I don’t know how to invest in a whole person, in finding that, again. He knows everything about me. We met when we were kids.”

“I feel like I know you. Sometimes I wish we were just one person. Maybe it would be easier.”

“Maybe he would be happy.”

“I don’t think his happiness has anything to do with us.”

“It never has.”

“I still hate you.”

“I still wish you were dead.”

“I’ll read what you write about this.”

“I know you will.”