Something Like Closure

I am early again. My chest tightens; my stomach twists in ways it shouldn’t. My hands fidget with exhaustion. I want to outrun what’s coming, yet every second coils around me like a warning I want to ignore. I can see myself clearly now in that stillness – certain that control meant being first, that preparation could protect me from what was already unravelling.

His guitar rig sits in one corner. My mic stand faces him, angled just enough for him to notice. He is seated, tuning his blush-pink guitar – gold hair falling into his face and brushed lazily to one side. Round lenses slide down his nose. He isn’t looking up, but he should be. He should want to see me. I have always mistaken attention for affection, as though being seen could fix the parts of me that already felt invisible.

I’m wearing my hair differently. Two braids trail down the back of my neck. Perhaps I am shaping myself for change, but I know better. His lack of attentiveness is dawning on me. I want him to see the small alterations I’ve made. I want him to feel them – to notice the pull of what he let go. My arms are wrapped around my body, but it’s not warmth I crave. The season is barely turning, yet I’m in fishnets and shorts – the cropped vest clinging as if made for him alone. Cold bites at my skin and I let it.

The others trickle in one by one. No one says much. The silence stretches – heavy and sharp. I convince myself it’s deliberate, that everyone is conspiring to make me feel small. I can’t shake the thought that they’re all watching, waiting to see me falter.

We start with something easy. Something familiar.

I focus on the pitch, on the shape of each word, and on the sound of his fingers. I can’t tell if I’m imagining it, but it feels like he’s playing differently too. He stumbles over sections he usually owns. Little mistakes I latch onto and savour. Every tiny triumph is proof that I still hold power, that he sees me, even if only in fragments of frustration. I exist in his mistakes. It embarrasses me now, how I equated pain with presence – if it hurt, it must have mattered.

No one says much. We finish up. We pack in silence. The others leave quickly. When they’re gone, the room's grime and scars finally reveal themselves. Cables twist at my feet, a tangled web I’m caught in. The stale air hangs heavy, thick with dust and sweat. Everything feels raw and exposed.

It’s just me and him now. My chest tightens with a private satisfaction. I can finally shape this moment however I want. I can shape the silence into something more. Turn it into desire. Back then, I believed I could drag him back into the world I wanted – and make him only see me.

For the first time he looks at me. His head rises. I wonder if he feels the same.

“Do you want a ride?”

His voice is quiet.

I nod, a smile simmering.

The short walk to the car passes in silence. The night is sharp against my arms. The sky is a dull slate, etched withdistorted shapes and a dimly lit sphere. The faint smell of damp concrete and spring flowers grounds me – or maybe it’s just reminding me how much of the world I’m ignoring.

We climb into the car. He starts the engine. headlights smear across familiar streets. Every rub of his hands against his thighs fuels the story I’m crafting. I am directing his thoughts without him knowing. My existence revolves entirely around his reactions and regret. That illusion of control thrilled me – it felt like authorship, though I was only ever a character in his quietness.

We pull up to my house. He doesn’t move. The car idles softly.

His hands slide from the steering wheel. I stare at them, embarrassed to look straight at him in case I shatter.

Then I look.

And there it is – everything unsaid hanging between us.

I feel the question burning in my throat before I can stop it.

“Kiss me.”

In the end, my voice cracks on the last word. More statement than request, a command in disguise.

My eyes brim with tears. I can’t let him see me like this. I let just enough show to remind him that I am fragile and desirable.

He leans in slowly. I shoot him a look. His hand finds my cheek; his lips meet mine. I know he wants this, as much as I have enjoyed twisting his intention.

It’s not passionate, nor is it desperate. It feels like something else – something calculated. Perhaps a mutual infatuation.

He pulls back. My eyes are still closed.

“Goodbye, Em.”

The word slams like a stone in water, rippling until all I can hear is the echo of it. I flinch. My body moves before I can think. The door slams, and my breath snags on something sharp bubbling inside me.

Inside, the quiet hits first. Then the realisation: there will be no rewrite. There’s no version where I’m chosen. For a moment, I listen to the silence I’ve created and understand that this is what’s left of me – the echo of wanting. The hollow after obsession.

My chest heaves as my voice shatters the quiet. Each ragged scream slips out between gasps. Nothing remains – of me, or anything that made me who I am now. I want him to crawl back to the throne I carved for us. I want every jagged edge of his mistake digging in where it hurts most. I want him to taste the bitterness he planted, and to finally understand how sharp the quiet can be. It will come back to him like a shadow that won’t loosen its grip. I’ll trace the scars he left until they trace him back.

But that never happened. The silence didn’t haunt him – it taught me. I can see that now. The ache was only ever mine to carry, and in naming it, I finally set it down.

References

Didion, J. (2005). The year of magical thinking . Alfred A. Knopf.

Gay, R. (2014). Bad feminist . Harper Perennial.