My phone hasn’t made a sound in days. Not even a scam call. Not even a wrong number.
I keep it fully charged, the ringer on and set to full volume.
I try not to think about its silence. Instead, I focus on all the new things I want to do.
I take an experimental sip of my coffee. I don’t have anyone to ask, but Gilmore Girls makes it seem simple enough to make–inevitably transcendent in any form. Plus, the overwhelming scent helps mask the stale air of the apartment.
Nope!
I’m lucky I didn’t spill the hot contents. My small couch, hauled from the side of the road, has its share of stains, but it doesn’t need any more. I’m not sure how I’d get a coffee stain out of something anyway.
It needs sugar, I think.
“Hey, mom–” I cut myself off before I can finish the sentence. Before I can hear the silence that follows. Before I can feel the weight of the realization.
Instead, I switch on the small TV that balances precariously on a table not quite big enough to hold it. I browse until I come across Ink Master.
Ink? Like tattoos?
Well, that’s something I don’t know about. But I can learn. I can reinvent myself. They do it all the time, don’t they? Take something old and make it new. Cover something ugly and give it meaning. Maybe I can, too.
I start the first episode and take my mug back into the kitchen. The cupboards are mostly bare, but I do have a small bag of sugar, and I dump a generous amount into the mug.
Does Lorellai drink it straight up? I wonder. Maybe it’s a sign of being a Master Coffee Drinker, being able to enjoy that kind of intense bitterness.
Bitterness ... the sensation lingers on my tongue, and in my heart.
You’re the one that left, I tell myself.
I know, but ... do they really just not care anymore?
Those two parts of me go to war. The me who’s afraid scolds the me who needed to leave.
It’s not too late, she says. You can go back. Right now, you can pack a bag and just say you’re sorry.
But I can’t, the other part of me argues. And I’m not sorry.
You’ve lost everything! the scared me screams. You just threw it all away, and now look at you.
No, I say. I didn’t lose everything, I gained freedom! Look at this apartment–it’s all mine. No religious rules, nobody watching my every move. It’s just me.
Sure, you got your freedom. But at what cost?
I look around my apartment. The road-side couch. The bare cupboards. The too-big TV on the too-small table. Then I look down at my phone.
The screen stays dark. I tap it anyway, just in case I missed something. Nothing. Still nothing.
I can’t take it. I said I wouldn’t, but—maybe it won’t be so bad. Maybe she’ll answer. Maybe she’s just been waiting for me to reach out first.
My mom sends me to voicemail.
I throw the useless, pointless phone across the room. It shatters against the wall, glass scattering across the floor. The lamp flickers, casting shadows of the broken pieces.
I put my head in my hands, too angry to cry but too devastated to breathe evenly.
Maybe ... maybe the cost was too high. But do I want to take it back? Do I want to go back?
Which is worse: freedom or loneliness?
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