For the First Time, Every Time.

The bed beneath me felt stale. It had been sitting against me for too long. I shifted, realising that the sheet and the duvet were loose from each other, my jeans rubbing against them. Everything was just so uncomfortable. The window had a slight amount of condensation against it from the cold evening air on the other side. I didn't realise the room had gotten so humid. The cold air clung to my skin. It felt like even my bones were cold, refusing to let the rest of my body warm up, soaking up any heat I could muster. Drawing away from my muscles as I slowly froze. I should get my jumper from across the room, but the silence was paralysing.

I shifted again, the slats of the single bed creaking beneath me. The weight of two people left them flexing under the mattress. Maybe this would be the time they broke. It always felt like a gamble. The loose sheet beneath me rubbed against my jeans, making me even less comfortable than before. These jeans were good, she used to compliment them, but I had outgrown them. Outgrown is the wrong word. They used to be really comfy, then when I gained weight, the thighs no longer felt like they fit. The soft, acne scarred skin of my inner thigh pressed up against the seam of the rough denim. It was time to replace them, but I don't think I could admit that it was needed. The dull ache of going up a size after making the promise to lose weight. The promise to improve myself, then being reminded how empty it was every time I sit down.

I was taken out of my thoughts and back into the room when she sniffled. A sharp sound that made me painfully aware of where I was. My leg was numb. I needed to move it, but I didn't want to seem fidgety. Like a child. I was taking the silence seriously. I swear, my mind was going a mile a minute, but my face said otherwise. I was respecting the silence. Honouring the silence. Perpetuating the silence. Is she waiting for me to say something? Or does she want me to be silent? I'm not sure. Breaking the illusion would be permanent, but keeping it going for a bit longer wouldn't hurt as much.

Eyes wandered. I didn't want to look at her too much. I looked over at the shelves in the dorm, decorated with birthday cards, textbooks, and whatever trinkets I wanted to bring from home. Whatever trinkets would make me seem coolest. The performative decoration of a first-year uni student. I had left all of the embarrassing stuff at home, locked away in my childhood bedroom. I hadn't visited home much since moving away, but every time I entered my room, it felt like stepping back in time. A time capsule of my previous life. An excavation of what I thought was cool. An autopsy of the person I used to be. Looking at the past as an indicator of where I am now. Where I might go. Where next? What's after this?

I looked back from the shelf, to the door, to the window, then to her. I couldn't see her eyes. I didn't know how she felt. I saw the red cheeks against the pale skin, the soft hair draped over the face. She was beautiful. I always knew she was. I felt bad thinking it, in times like this. No one wants to be seen when they're crying. No one wants comments on how they look, positive or not, but she did look beautiful. I always lacked the words to describe how she looked, how she made me feel. She was so pretty it pained me. I don't know if she ever knew how much she meant to me. The swirl of emotions inside tied a knot in my chest, which constricted my tongue and contorted it into "you look pretty" and "that looks good on you". Even now, I couldn't think of the right words to describe the pressure in my chest that was evoked. She moved her head, and her deep blue eyes met mine. Not red and puffy like they normally were, but wet and soulful. She had been thinking as I had.

Reflexively, I smiled at her, which she reciprocated. Then her face dropped and she moved her head back to where it was. Not even a sustained smile. A pity smile. We'd had good times, hadn't we? I remember she used to talk to her friends about me all the time, then would get embarrassed when I found out. We used to sit and plan out the weeks in advance so we could spend every free minute together. Then I moved away. Devotion is easy when you're close, but it's not devotion if you only do it when it's easy. Obsession isn't the right word, but whatever it was drew to a close when I moved away. I should be happy. I was following my dreams, and moving up in the world. A cosy room, a prestigious university, chalkboards filled with equations. But something was missing. Something wasn't there. It took me a while to realise, but times like these made it clear. Whatever was missing, I wouldn't find it here. It was missing from me. Missing was the wrong word. If something is missing, it doesn't follow you. It doesn't weigh on you, no matter where.

My leg jolted. I was sitting on her phone. I shifted as she went to pick up the phone, muscle memories of times we were once in sync. She read the notification.

"I'm going to have to go, it's time to pick him up." she said, her voice wavey, but stronger than I thought.

"Fair enough," I said, rising from the bed. Silence was broken. Her voice shot memories through me. I slowly got up from the bed as we sat under a tree in the sun, saying I love you for the first time. I lazily slipped on my shoes while we went bowling, entwining into each other after every bowl. Trudging over to the door, I cried in her bed after she had gotten drunk and told me how much I had changed the the last few months. I opened the door for her, seeing her face for the first time, every time.

"It was good to see you, even if it was brief."

"It was, sorry it had to end."

"It's fine, I always enjoy what we had, no matter how much there is."

We hugged at the door. Her head nestling into my neck, fitting perfectly and comfortably. Like that's what we were made for. Eroding into each other for years, moulding the other for ourselves. Incomplete without the complementary part.

She walked down the corridor and out of the building. We never even crossed paths after that. Not even awkward eye contact across a busy street. I had seen her face for the first time, the last time.