Anita

Anita didn’t die from a heartbreak. She died because she convinced herself that romantic love was all she ever needed.

We grew up with her. We watched her cry. We knew her laughter, and, most importantly, we knew that she knew we loved her.

It didn’t have to be explained. Sometimes our menstrual cycles even matched. Science couldn’t really fully explain it, but our spirits were wired in the same way.

When she got hurt, I felt it. We weren’t even twins; we were three years apart, and yet it felt like she had been alive at the exact moment our mother gave birth to me.

I knew her more than anything in life. And when she fell in love, I fell for it too.

He was a sweet young man, raised in the depths of Alexandra. He carried his wealth well because he knew what poverty felt like.

He told us we could make it. Like every wealthy person, he gave us crappy speeches about making it into the limelight. She believed him, of course, and so did I. Like two lost, wired sheep, we followed him into complete chaos.

Suddenly Anita couldn’t come home because she was worried Papi would need her. I’d eventually leave, looking for her, hoping he wouldn’t need her that night. But he always did. I think that’s obvious to you, too.

I sent her text messages and letters. I bought her gifts. But like I said, she knew what she wanted.

And so, the un-wiring began.

My cycles became my own and no one else’s. I was alone in my guilt, my joy, my pain.

I stopped leaving, I stopped hoping.

Many times I had to explain why I felt the way I felt, why I did the things I did. I was still in the chaos, trapped somewhere away from Anita.

When I got out, she stayed. I wonder if she ever heard the silent cries.

I saw her once, sitting among piles of dirt. Her hair was cut, lips ashy, and the weight of the world seemed to have been resting on her shoulders.

She was long gone - a mixture of a fix and despair.

I told her we could be together again. We could feel each other’s pain again. We could bleed together again.

I could pull her out, we could be each other’s limelight.

But she knew. She always knew what she wanted.

And so, she stayed. Like before, she clung to the chaotic depths of a life we never dreamed of.

I died too, actually. I cried the silent cries of a justice never found.

In the after life, I only wish to tell her that I loved her.

I needed her, I missed her.

I wish I had never stopped leaving.

______________________________

Note: This is not a personal story to me, even though my voice as the narrator might make it seem like it is.

This is a story about how complicated love and loss can be, and I loved exploring it through the dynamics of sisterhood because I personally feel that sisterhood is one of the greatest forms of love.

I enjoyed including menstrual cycles as a metaphor in the story because it’s a lived experience among many woman, and to some of us, it seems to mean something greater.

When our menstrual cycles match, it’s almost like a biological love letter to each other. Although biology or science doesn’t deem it to be anything deeper than a simple coincidence, I just think it’s a beautiful moment to share with a close friend or sister❤️

I hope you enjoyed the read🥹