Long Time No See

*THIS STORY CONTAINS SENSITIVE CONTENT*

(mental health/suicidal ideation, profanity)

Smooth, dark coffee pours from the cheap French press into a large white mug, the bittersweet aroma swarming the air you breathe. The smell alone rouses you from a groggy stupor. You catch yourself absently staring at the smoking crab painted on the side, and the words ‘LIFE IS FUCKING RELENTLESS’ staring back. They seem more pertinent than yesterday.

“Any sugar or creamer? I have–”

“No, that’s fine! I prefer it black, thank you,” they chirp. The awkward silence of two wayward friends feels too big for your cramped apartment walls. Still stuck in a staring contest with the crustacean, your hands make their way to the handles of two cups of coffee: a creamy concoction for you and a vacuous swill for your guest. You turn to them, flashing a shallow smile.

They had shown up on your doorstep, unannounced, at 2 in the morning, exhilarated to see you after all this time. Before the initial shock had settled, their arms were tightly wrapped around you; even though years had passed since you last felt it, the heft of their embrace was hopelessly comforting. You had forgotten how much it crushes your ribs and steals your breath, being held so tightly. It didn’t take long for them to worm their way in, making themselves at home in your favorite suede armchair. Candles were lit, with the scents of bergamot, sage, and musk to elicit a laid-back ambiance and conceal the stench of rotting trash. Being the good host you are, you offered refreshments in the form of caffeine. It was an ungodly hour for guests. The echoes of streaming liquid and shuffling ceramic acted as a lousy remedy for the tense quiet while you prepared the drinks. Which led you to now, cradling a steaming latte in shaky hands, sitting across from a long-lost companion with your knees to your chest. The couch you spent days sleeping on suddenly feels wrong, as if the cushion had forgotten where you habitually sat. The living room that always felt cozy and warm no longer feels like yours. The books on your shelf, the trinkets on your TV stand, and the paintings hanging on your walls lost their vibrancy and meaning.

“So…how have you been?” The words slip from your mouth, eager to fill the silence.

“Oh, absolutely fantastic! It’s been so long since I’ve been back home, and you were obviously the first person I had to come see! There’s so much to catch up on, and I know it’s late, but we always had the most fun hanging out late at night. I figured your night owl qualities hadn’t changed much since I last saw you.” Their laughter at your poor sleeping habits stings a little, though it’s not as if it’s untrue. “Anyways, it just wouldn’t sit well with me if I didn’t come say hi to my closest friend while I was visiting.” You find yourself fidgeting with the mug. Tapping the body and stroking the handle, trying to stay focused on the conversation. Except, you can’t help disappearing inside your own body, riddled with the overwhelming numbness of being a spectator from inside your head.

“That’s good. I’m glad life has been treating you well. This is definitely a surprise…I didn’t think I’d ever see you again if I’m being honest.”

Their eyes lower and grow solemn despite the previous excitement at being here. “Well, that’s not exactly my fault, is it?”

Silence fills the living room again. “Yea…” You ruminate on what to say. Looking for an excuse or explanation for your distance. “We kinda grew apart. I assumed it was inevitable.” You look away, trying your best to avoid eye contact. Several minutes pass, with your eyes locked on the blackened sky out the window, regarding haggard trees bristling in the wind and the lights of cars driving by. Theirs, never leaving your face. Both of you waiting for someone to speak first.

“How about you? Tell me all the updates: dating, work, and how’s the art going? Have you gone back to school yet? Oh my god, I wanna know everything.”

“Well…” There’s a lot to say, but the stories catch in your throat, the truth a dreadful notion. “Love life is pretty much the same. Dating apps are pointless, and meeting new people has been hard. Bars don’t lead to anywhere beyond one night stands, and we’re a little too old now for house parties–”

“You’re just being picky. You should really work on your self-esteem; a little confidence and effort go a long way. Sounds like it’s a you problem,” they say nonchalantly. No kindness in their voice. Just a matter-of-fact observation.

You cringe a little at the commentary, letting it roll off your back with a half-hearted chuckle, “You’re probably onto something there. The thought crosses my mind pretty often…there have been a few dates, but it tends to end in ghosting. Kinda feels like they only really want me for sex or something.”

“Well, if you spread your legs that easily, you’re not giving them something to stick around for.” Your heart sinks a little more. The loneliness and self-loathing hollow you out with a melon baller to the chest.

“It’s hard to love someone who can barely love themselves. Honestly, have you looked in the mirror lately?” Self-conscious awareness heats the tips of your ears and cheeks. You shift in your seat, pajamas too tight across your stomach and thighs, insecurity roiling in your gut. Bottomless ugliness makes your skin agonizing to wear, an internal repulsion that can’t be purged.

“I guess you’re right…”

“I know I’m right. Self-respect is sexy; guys these days can smell desperation a mile away. Seriously, you’re just asking to get used.” They scoff, eyeing you up and down with distaste, which is quickly replaced with a smile, feigning empathy and compassion. “I’m only trying to help. Anyways, what’s next? Oh! Work! Anything new there?” You’re grateful for the change of topic; nevertheless, the gnawing imperfections don’t fade.

“Work is alright. Haven’t really been enjoying it, and it’s been hard trying to find a new one in this economy. No one really wants to hire a 5-year barista for a receptionist position. There have been a few interviews, sure, although I get ghosted just the same.”

“Your resume isn’t impressive by any means. Employers don’t care how personable you are if you don’t have the experience.” Their body language is eerily relaxed: legs crossed, one hand flippantly holding their mug, and the other supporting their head in a disappointed tilt.

“I can’t exactly make someone hire me. I’m trying–”

“This is why you should go back to school. Degrees, even certifications, make a huge difference. Dropping out of school, not once, but TWICE, was such an idiotic move.” They down some of their drink before continuing, “The second it gets hard, you quit and run away, making any excuse for yourself: ‘Oh my mental health is bad,’ ‘I don’t have the time for it,’ ‘I’m burnt out.’ You’re running out of excuses, and you’re running out of time. Do you really wanna be a 30-year-old graduate?” Setting their coffee on the table, they lean into the chair, bringing a hand to rub the bridge of their nose with an exasperated groan. Your vision blurs, not from tears, not yet; it blurs from dissociation. The further you distance yourself from the growing void, the less it will hurt. You search for a response, and all you come up with are more rationalizations. More bullshit and fear. Fear that they’re right. Unfortunately, it doesn’t stop there.

“It’s sad, watching you throw your life and talent away because you’re too lazy. Everything is always someone else’s fault and never yours. Have you ever considered taking accountability for your irresponsibility?”

“I want to do better…” You whisper, “It’s not like I want to be like this.”

“What, a failure? A useless, pathetic failure who can’t even support themself or love themself enough to stop wallowing in self-pity?” they shout, standing from their seat to close in on you. “It’s embarrassing how you delude yourself into thinking that you’re more than that.

“The reality is, you’re not good enough. You’re not trying hard enough. You’re not disciplined enough or dedicated enough. You will NEVER be enough.” At this point, their face is inches from yours, voice loud and shrill, the same as your mother’s when she dumps her disappointment on you. The smell of espresso and rage hits your face when they let out a sharp sigh, before returning to the armchair. They plop down, throwing their arms in the air dramatically. You choose to say nothing, having run out of energy to fight back. Arguing any longer was a losing battle.

You both revert to sitting in an aggressive quiet. There’s a small hope in you that the criticisms have ceased, and you can instead bask in the self-loathing. In the aching heart that anchors you, there is comfort. This endless and cruel abuse feels…right. It’s reminiscent of the pain from picking at the raw skin of gnawed cuticles or digging into sore muscles. Neither of you has looked at the other. Seconds. Minutes. Hours pass in stifling contemplation.

Eventually, they break first, voice biting, “Aren’t you tired of it? Of living?” The question is harsh; a raw reminder of how exhausting the Sisyphean task of existing is. To discover each day, life pushes your boulder back down, leaving you to start again. The battle was never-ending.

“Every day.” Tears well in your eyes, begging to fall. Except tears signify defeat, and there are already plenty of reasons for your inadequacy. Falling apart now would only be an admission of their victory.

“You should just stop then.” And there it is. The grand finale. The only reasonable solution, right? Eliminate the boulder, and there’s no suffering anymore. Right?

“I can’t,” you say without any hesitation, which surprises you.

“Why not?”

“Nothing you’ve said is wrong, but…I have to hold hope that it won’t stay this way. That I won’t always be like this. Because who am I, if not a hopelessly optimistic survivor? Who am I if I give up on love and beauty?”

“Hope and the futility of love only breeds bitter disappointment.”

You stare at the remnants of the creamy brew filling half of your cup, studying the hues reflected from the candlelight. Amber, copper, burnt umber, dance in tune with the dimming flames, painting a moving picture, and it reminds you of the sunsets you love to watch; the joy of sharing it with someone you love.

“True. But even the most bitter coffee can be delicious when you sweeten it.”

Lifting your head, you notice that their seat is vacant, having vanished as abruptly as they appeared. You pick up their cup, finding it empty; an apt metaphor for how they drained your self-worth, every sip mirroring an insult. Their presence lingers: in the imprint of the cushion where they sat and the residual rings on the coffee table. Worse than that, it’s the echoes of their voice droning incessantly in your head. Admittedly, they never really left to begin with. The forgotten friend you know as depression was always there, a constant companion you shared space with. A ghost haunting your body the way it would a home.

However, every ghost can be exorcised, just as the voices of misery can be muzzled. No matter how many times your old pal depression comes to visit in the middle of the night, at least there’s coffee for the morning and sunsets in the evening to remind you: this too shall pass.