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CONTRAST - 58

A HEARTBREAK THAT NEVER TRULY HAPPENED

BY KAILEY RHONE

Brady,
You had a beautiful mane of chestnut-colored hair the same shoulder length

as mine. That was three and a half years ago. You've cut it all off by now. You still
have the bluest eyes, a color that rivals the vibrancy of a summer sky. I remember
looking into them; they gave me such a start; they were so clear and aware of the
world around, but never did they see me, your girlfriend of nearly two years. Do
you still wear that black sweatshirt almost every day? Do you still bite your nails?
Maybe you don't smell of soap and chapstick anymore, or listen to Queen because
it relaxes you, or even memorize poems to recite when your grandparents come
to visit. Maybe, when you were with me you just needed the company, or the
affection. And maybe I was just pretending to be happy because that's just what
people do.

One thing I am certain of is that I never knew how to do origami. It's a com-
plicated hobby that I am nowhere near perfecting. I could show you how to fold
a piece of paper until it was a tiny square, but despite my efforts it never turned
into a crane or a dragon. For a long while I could be found fidgeting with paper and
How-To books, trying my best to improve my skills. It had come to the point where
all the paper I had wasted became the carpeting for my bedroom floor. I was soon
aware that my talent did not lie in making origami shapes. Nonetheless, I found it
necessary to finish off the supplies I had obsessively bought during my crafting
phase.

I remember sitting at my desk, The Art of Odgamiready to teach, with one last
square of paper between my fingers. I began to fold. My first attempt to create
failed miserably. Each attempt I made led only to disappointment. After putting in
so much effort to recreate something of remarkable flawlessness from weathered
material, I came to the realization that the creases and folds of paper are not so
easily erased.

Brady, you were my piece of paper. Yes, you were pale and thin, but that's only
half the reason why. I spent the almost two years we had together tiring myself
with the struggle of "fixing" you. Despite my pure and consistent will I couldn't
change you into the image I had in mind; someone who didn't have the quirks that
attracted attention in public nor the compulsive tendencies that would require me
to stay on the phone with you until the clock reached an even time.

I couldn't smooth out that damn little square of paper. It's well known to me
now (at a time that is too late) that your creases and slight tares was proof that
you tried. Every day you wore out yourself and had absolutely no escape from it.
But I was wearing away too; I was the mother, I was the girlfriend, I was the prop
you used to fuel your ego. Was it better to keep that worn piece of paper for a
later date or simply throw it away?

***

On one of our last dates before I would end it with you via phone call, we or-
dered one very tall frozen raspberry lemonade at our regular coffee shop. You wore
that damn sweatshirt again. That damn brown and black striped sweatshirt with
the frayed sleeves. Sarah had reluctantly come with us, her evening plans of isolat-
ing herself in her bedroom wrecked by friendly obligation. The cafe was quaint;