an archive of almosts

I’m sorry to the person after them. I’m sorry for the ways I’ll flinch when you say you’re falling for me. For the ways I’ll roll my eyes when you say you see me. For the ways I’ll back away when you say that you think about me.

How do I describe to them that as we’re sitting at a bar listening to the music that hangs over us, my mind is elsewhere.

How do I emphasize that I’ve been here before. That although now I can’t seem to get the words out, they used to flow so naturally.

That when I would turn my head to observe the room, the inside of my wrist was already attached to their lips. But now they stay cold, stale, waiting.

Maybe my memory has been failing me to give me a break. A deep breath. A heavy exhale. I used to memorize small details. What size their jeans were. Where they were last Thursday. I’d be able to commit the end of their story to memory.

They’d turn to me, in small moments of stutter. I’d smile and nod, nudging them on. Their eyes, pleading. My mouth, completing. Swooping in, savior. Needed.

That was me. My title. My badge of honor. One that I proudly wore. It meant that I belonged somewhere.

That even if my body felt distant to me, even when the clothes draped off of me, even when I was in fact the foreign one, I still belonged.

Some days I’m proud that I was able to walk away, from some. And other days I’m devastated at myself – for knowing that in far too many situations, I would have waited.

It’s unsettling that if they asked, I would have stayed. That even though I wasn’t ready, I would have tried to become someone who was.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t. It was easier for you to leave me, to watch me wipe the tears that rushed down my cheeks. To tell me that one day, we’d have spent more time apart than we ever did together.

So now, the fear trickles down each vertebrate of my spine.

My entire life I’ve been anxious to a fault. The breath in my chest physically incapable of reaching the depths of my lungs. The lump in my throat, a familiar feeling. The red in my face, burning, burning, burning. The constant blinking, fighting back the sting of tears that appear in the corner of my eyes.

I regret to say that there is a genuine freedom in locking my heart away. There is a freedom in knowing that now, I wouldn’t stay.

It seems ironic that I mourn people leaving, but here I am with one hand on the doorknob at all times. One eye wandering.

And if I look in the mirror and see you, instead? If I look myself in the eyes and plead not to turn it off. And if I do, anyways? If I bury my head in the sand, if I become a version of myself that I no longer recognize – what then? Does that make me worse than you? Does it make me the villain, or the survivor? You’re not the villain, I tell myself. So it must be me. The one who gets left behind. Time and time again. It must be me.

Can something be considered a problem if it’s not something I want to fix? Not yet. Is it wrong to want to sit and savor the sweetness of being numb?

I do still imagine it though. Sometimes. I imagine what it would be like to have a mini me running around. To feel at ease, at peace in my heart. To not feel dread with every unanswered text. To know that their arms will inevitably be waiting for me when I get home.

I talk to that imagined being in my dreams. I walk up to them, sit on a bench near them. They’re there, next to me. But not quite. The sun sets and rises. The bench stays the same. But the trees grow, slightly. The flowers bloom. The hair on my head grays. And yet there we are, still sitting. There we are still in each other’s path.

However, what I imagine has not existed in my orbit. I close my eyes and picture a partner, of equal standing. Already a foreign concept. I picture laughter, a lot of it. I picture tender moments sandwiched between light bickering, playful banter. I can’t fathom the face, the body, the gender. But the eyes.

Oh I know the eyes. They know me. The eyes are, as I’ve long said, a gateway to the soul. Eyes don’t lie. They dilate in my presence, they water in my absence. They crease with a quiet, knowing smile.

Maybe I’m contradicting myself. Maybe I do picture someone. Maybe I wish I didn’t.

In the aching hours of trying to memorize them, maybe I wish my subconscious could forget. How funny that of all the things my brain forgets, this isn’t one of them.

I’ve been here before. And I know what comes next.

Not forgetting necessarily, but something sweeter. Something quieter. Something kinder. They (them and I) become filed away with a version of me that doesn’t exist anymore. They stay there, planted in that universe permanently. There’s no removing them from one another.

It’s comforting to know that inevitably there is, was, a time stamp of our existence. Proof that we once existed in tandem.

They often described me as a bright light. So maybe, just maybe, I was the sun and they were the moon. Constantly chasing one another. One couldn’t exist without the other. But, one can’t exist with the other either. Brief moments in time, brief moments of overlap. The sun has so much privilege, so much life to give. Oh, but the moon. The moon allows the stars to shine bright, allows for a beauty that is undeniably ethereal.

In my mind, I can picture the day, the time, the year. I can still hear the various whispers over the years:

“I’m not good at expressing myself, but when I’m not around you, I still miss you, and when I’m with you, I want more of you. I love you.”

To

“Being around you. It’s the most at ease I’ve ever felt with myself. It’s the most myself I’ve ever felt. With anyone.”

To

“Maybe we’re kindred spirits, destined to meet in every lifetime.”

To

Gutted.

Reason enough to enjoy whispers of a different kind – the kind that exists in one context. Within limits. The kind that never quite reaches the eyes. The kind that we both know should be said to someone else. Someone who, for one reason or another, isn’t here right now.

The unspoken truths of being a placeholder.

About the Writer:

Serene Issa is a Palestinian-American writer based in New York City. She is currently working on her first novel while also coaching Pilates on the side. Alongside her creative work, she runs an active Substack that she began about a year ago, where she shares reflections and essays with a growing readership.

Here’s the link to Serene’s Substack: