He’s a normal guy with blond hair and green eyes and a wide jaw and broad shoulders. He’s a normal aquarium forum guy with whom I’ve developed a friendship over the past several months. Nothing more, nothing less.
I click on the message.
Mack: I just wanted to let you know I’ll be leaving the aquarium forum. I think this place is starting to have a negative effect on my personality . . . Too much of a good thing, you know? I have loved getting to know you. But you’ll probably never hear from me again. I hope you have a great life. You brought a little bit of joy to my day every day, and I can’t say that about anything or anyone else in this world. Even my ugly fish thinks so. I’ll miss you, Jules. You have no idea.
My mouth drops open.
What?!
He’s . . . he’s leaving me? He’s just up and leaving?
Disappearing like a raindrop in the ocean? Like a pebble skipping past the surface?
How fucking dare he.
I thought we had something.
I thought we were copacetic.
I thought . . . I thought he liked me.
Suddenly, my world has shrunk even more; the walls push toward me like an inflating balloon house, threatening to brush against the skin of my arms.
If I don’t have Mack, who do I have?
All my ambivalence evaporates, and my fingers frantically type out words. Maybe I can convince him to stay. Maybe it’s not too late.
Jules: Leaving? But I haven’t even shared my deepest, darkest secrets with you yet. Who else am I going to confess to about my special instant ramen recipe or the time I accidentally made all my desktop icons invisible or the time I downloaded porn onto my work laptop and it was emailed to the entire company? You can’t leave me, Mack. I thought I mattered to you. I thought you cared. I thought we were friends. Where are you even going?
It’s a frantic, confessional message. The tone is desperate, and for once, I don’t care. The confession is the point. Don’t go. Please forgive me. Redeem us. Return. But when I hit send, the message bounces back.
User Mackthefishguy, account deleted 10:22 p.m.
In the corner of the screen, the last digit of the clock increases by one.
10:27 p.m.
I missed him by five minutes.
***
After Mack’s message, I dove deep beneath my comforter, head cloaked beneath the cover. I didn’t come out for hours. Not when my stomach rumbled or my phone buzzed or my tongue scraped like sandpaper against the sticky pillow of my inner cheeks.
At least I know I fell asleep at night and not in the morning. Tiny wins.
Now, it must be past sunrise. I’ve woken up three times already, gulping for air, my hands at my throat. But my dreams amount to nothing more than a distant, wispy idea, not a picture or a memory. The only image I can conjure up is green and goopy, dark and floaty, like air or water or space. Sometimes, I swear I see spiderwebs. Glowing. Or maybe fiery webs. I’m stuck in one like a bug. Unable to move.
Someone or something is going to get me.
That’s the most I can remember. Which, admittedly, is more than before. But less than the average bear.
I pull at my collar, which now feels tight at the neck. I’m in my sweats from days ago. They’ve dampened at folded junctures of my body with perspiration. I’m like a wrestler trying to make fighting weight. The desire to fall back into the abyss is strong, to succumb to the darkness of a dreamless sleep. But nonetheless, that desire is irrelevant. My body decides when it’s time to rise, and there’s no denying what my body wants.
Fuck it. Get the fuck up. There’s no more hiding in the bed.
I force myself through my normal morning routine: Mouth to coffee, spoon to Froot Loops, robe to body, ass to creaky computer chair. Ass out of creaky chair. Hand to door locks.
Ear to door. I’m listening for Jason.
Anything to avoid Jason.
Fingertip to phone messages.
There are four from my mother. I delete them without reading them.
One from Kate.
Kate: Um, hello? Where have you been? Do you need anything? Breakfast sandwiches? A new therapist? An edible?
I don’t respond to her either. What’s the point? Kate can’t change anything in my life. No one can, not even me.
Especially not me. I let out a grunt of agreement with myself.
It’s not until I plop down again in my creaky chair and flip on my computer that I let the feelings rush back into my consciousness.
Mack is gone.
And I don’t know anything about him. I never even got an email address. A real name.
