Illicit Affairs

nine. it gets loud

When I walk into my room the next week and see her sitting on her bed with a somber face, I know that I need to say something. I'm not going to ignore the signs like I did before. I can't just stay silent, knowing what I know so about her so far. It doesn't feel right for me, not right now.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

She's startled when she sees me, as I notice that she has headphones in. She takes them out, shuts her phone off and looks at me. I'm completely shocked when I hear her response. Mostly because I don't expect her to respond.

"Sometimes it just gets loud," she says.

I feel lost as to what to say next. I walk over to her bed, ask if I can sit next to her and she hesitantly nods. We make mutual eye contact for a second, but somehow I feel as if in that moment, I can look into her soul. Her eyes are capturing, but are a muddy brown hue of what her emotions represent.

I wish that I could get a quick snapshot of what she feels. It's different to hear about something and then experience it. I get sad sometimes, but it's not the same. I don't think that it's fair for me to give my words if they won't even help her.

I don't think that matters though. Even if I don't know what to say, it's better to say something rather than nothing. I can think of many cases where that wouldn't apply, but right now isn't one of them.

It's better to give her reminders of a hopeful future than to stay silent. It's better to try to force her to believe that she'll be okay rather than to stay silent. It's better to tell her that I believe in her rather than to stay silent. I don't know if that's what she wants to hear. I'll say it anyways.

If I decide to stay quiet right now, knowing that she's struggling, then it would be better for me to not know. Because if I say nothing about what she's going through, then I feel as if I'll come off a careless person.

I do care about her, I really do. Even though she drives me insane with our ridiculous fights and arguments about meaningless topics. I care more than enough to want to say something to her about it.

I tell her that her feelings make sense. I tell her that even though she feels alone, she isn't. I remind her that I'm here for her.

"Don't lie," she says.

"What do you mean?"

"That's what everyone says, and then they leave," she tells me sadly.

It disappoints me that she actually believes that. Before I can even object it it, she keeps talking.

"When people give up on you, that's it. That's done and over with. They've decided that you aren't getting better and that you're a lost cause."

"I think there's more to it than that."

"No, that's it," she declares.

She clearly believes it, and her stubborn qualities are present in all of her actions and her words. It's present in the way she declares that what she's saying is the truth and in the way that she refuses to look at me.

"There's no way that you could believe that, right? I'm sorry that people made you believe that, and I'm sorry that people did that to you. You shouldn't hold onto that mindset though. You can't!"

"Why not? People gave up on me as if I were a school project that they decided not to finish. It's hard not to believe that everyone is like that."

"Look, I don't think that you should—"

"And it's not like I want to be around people! I would be better off without them. I never like relying on people."

"I mean, you're sort of relying on me right now. You're telling me what you're feeling. You're telling me what's happening," I explain to her.

"That's true, I'll probably regret this. Another reason why I hate people: if you don't get better, they start to blame you. It's like if their cookie cutter solutions don't work for you, then it's obviously because you don't want to be helped."

"How do you think they feel? Try to look at it from their point of view! It hurts when you see that someone is in pain, and sometimes, it helps to take a break for yourself. It's hard on people to know everything."

She rolls her eyes, and says, "yeah, I'm done with that bullshit. I stopped when those same people started acting as if they saved me because all they bothered saying was 'you'll get over it.'"

"Aria, I don't think that you should—"

And she interrupts me again. I feel like yelling at her for doing that. I listen to her though, because even though she doesn't listen to me, I'm still decent enough to do that.

"And, you know, I can't rely on people. I don't like to relying on this either."

She lightly throws an small orange-ish shaded bottle on my lap. I look at it and realize what's inside.

"How long have you had these?"

"A long time. I don't like taking them. If I can't rely on people, then I don't want to rely on some magical pill. I take them anyway though."

"Why?" I ask her.

"I don't feel like explaining," she says.

I decide to tell her what I've been thinking this entire time.

"I think that your problem is that you assume the worst in people. You assume that people are treating like you a project, when all they went is to help. You believe that people make you out to be like some trophy. You think that you can't talk to people about your problems because it won't go the way you want it to go," I tell her.

She just looks at me silently, so I decide to add on more, but in a nicer manner.

"I don't know much about anything, but I do know this. There will be people out there that will love you. There will be people that will care about you and won't treat you badly. You have to be patient though. If you haven't met these people yet, don't assume that you never will."

"When I say those things, it's not because I'm being fucking dramatic. You don't know about my life," she says bitterly.

"Then tell me! Tell me about your life!"

She looks down, snatches the bottle of pills into her hands, and says nothing more.

The conversation ends there.

Two more days pass before she leaves the room.

I'm in the room, sitting on my bed and working on an essay. Aria has wordlessly gotten ready to leave, and she doesn't even say bye as she loudly slams the door. Our already poor relationship has worsened, and we're back in that stage of not even being friends.

From what I had seen, she had been holed up here for forever. I didn't know if she went places while I was in class though, so I start to wonder if she went anywhere during those times.

She quickly walks back in with a distant expression on her face, and a harsh stance as if she forgot something. I see her grab the bottle of pills, and she instantly swallows one without any issue about it. She slams the bottle back on to her nightstand drawer and starts walking out of the room.

I'm about to say something, but she notices that I'm about to talk.

"Stop," she tells me instantly, turning completely around to face me. "Don't even think about treating me differently because of this." 

I want to tell her that I'm here for her and that she can talk to me, but I know that she'll think that I'm calling her weak if I do that, so I decide to keep my mouth shut. She leaves the room, closing the door loudly and leaving me behind in the awkward silence. Of course, she still has to be as annoying as ever, so I get back to my schoolwork.