Being Seen

“I can’t do this anymore.”

The words don’t echo. They don’t shatter anything. They just sit there in the room with me, heavy and patient like they’ve been waiting their turn. I say them to the ceiling because ceilings don’t argue back. They don’t tell me I’m overreacting, or being sensitive or melodramatic. The ceiling fan turns in slow, lazy circles above me, indifferent.

I press my palms into my eyes until I see sparks. I am so tired of bracing for impact. Of rehearsing conversations that never happen. More than anything, I am tired of shrinking myself down into something easier to hold, quieter, less in the way. If I disappear carefully enough, maybe it will hurt less when no one notices and I won’t have to keep pretending that I don’t mind being the one who understands everyone else while no one understands me.

And the worst part is I don’t even know when I started believing that this—this tightness in my chest, this constant readiness to flinch—is what living is supposed to feel like.

My phone begins to ring on the floor where I had dropped it. With each vibration my heart clenches. I want to answer it, respond, but what if they hear it in my voice?

“I just can’t.”

The ringing stops, and I whisper a silent thank you.

I close my eyes and begin to contemplate what disappearing quietly would be like, the phone already out of mind. But then, it vibrates twice in rapid succession. A text. So close to a missed call? My chest feels about to explode. Unable to resist the urge, I sit up and retrieve my phone. Turning the screen on, I find the missed call and text are from the same person. Of course it would be. With a sigh, I open up my texts with my closest friend.

<Is everything okay? You’ve been quiet lately.>

I don’t answer right away. Instead, I begin scrolling through our conversations.

Today, February 14: <Don’t forget the cheese.>

I chuckle despite myself. I hadn’t even heard my phone go off this morning. A callback to an old video, one I honestly don’t even remember now, but the words stuck. The hilarity of stupidity within a clip merely seconds long. He knew that would make me laugh.

I keep scrolling.

Yesterday, February 13th: <Hey, just checking in. Havent heard from you this week. Hows it gong?> Sent: 2:54pm. Seen: 2:57pm.

I had never responded. Not even to correct the glaringly obvious typos. I remember that moment, too. Of ignoring the text. I didn’t want to answer, didn’t even know what to say.

I scroll again.

February 7th: <Hey. You seemed off last night. Did Olivia piss you off again?>

<No, I was just tired. Work’s been crazy lately.>

<Tell me ‘bout it.>

Another text I never answered. For days, it seems. Did he actually want me to tell him about it? I assumed it had just been casual sympathy.

Thumb trembling, I continue to scroll.

January 23rd: <Call me when you get home.>

<Yep. Will do.>

I never had.

Scroll.

January 20th: <You alive?> Sent: 8:24am Seen: 8:25am

<Lol, yeah. For now. Life’s killer.> Sent: January 24th, 12:36am.

What a lame joke. How did I think that would be funny?

Scroll.

As I kept scrolling further, the conversations grew longer, my answers full of cognitive introspection and more than just casual human response mere months ago. Jokes we shared, updates on classes, watching each other’s life through conversation.

The change was obvious. Responses getting shorter with time, ignoring some all together. So obvious I couldn’t believe I had thought I had quietly separated from everything. When did I begin fading?

Scroll. Scroll.

Oh. Right.

August 2nd: <Hey, are you okay?>

<I’m fine.>

<I heard about Jason. I checked in with you yesterday, but you never responded.>

<Yeah I know.>

<You don’t have to pretend with me. You know that right?>

<I’ll b fine. In a few months it’ll be like it never even happened.>

The screen blurs. When had it become so easy to withdraw? To isolate? Had he noticed right away, or only recently? No, he knew already. He knew the whole time. Wiping my eyes clear I scroll back through each text with a different clarity. Reading them in my head, in his voice, they held a different kind of nuance. One full of concern and worry. I was so afraid of answering the phone and having someone hear it all in my voice. Yet, here, my voice didn’t even need to be heard.

I scroll to the end of the conversation, the most recent text watching me without accusation. Just patiently lingering. The little conversation bubble appears and my heart begins to pound. I’m not ready for this. To open up. To let someone in. I type a response. Delete it. Three words? Who am I kidding anymore, it’s been nearly half an hour. Providing such a short response at this point would just give away the lie. I type another response, my fingers gliding over the letters, gaining speed as I pour every thought, every rumination into a story. A few paragraphs later I stop mid sentence.

No. Too much.

I select all and delete, letting my arms fall into my lap, the phone nearly slipping from my fingers. I couldn’t even explain it if I wanted to.

"It isn’t that simple. I can’t do this." This time though, the words are lighter. Looser in their meaning, gentler. The silence remains, but this time the walls respond. It could be, and you can.

I open my phone.

<I don’t know how to answer that, but I want to stop pretending.> Sent.

The text bubble disappears momentarily, but came back quickly. Each blink of those three little dots matching the pace of my heart. What will he say? What could he?

<You don't have to know right now. I’m here, and I got you. We'll process this together. You have time to call?>

The breath I’d been holding releases, with it, a heaviness I hadn’t even noticed had accumulated inside. Not what I had been expecting this to feel like. Being seen, that is.

<Yeah.>