Goodbye
Rosemary Emerson
Goodbye. Such a simple word. Seven letters. Two syllables. Any idiot who has been talking for a week can say it. So what was my problem?
I had an extensive vocabulary, but it wasn't the simpleness of the word that kept me from saying it.
And it wasn't like I had never said it, either. I had said goodbye to my mother and my friends in New York. I had said goodbye to Luke, to my father, to Lily.
But I had never been able to say it to her. Not to Rory.
I destroyed her car, injured her, didn't even fucking apologize, and left.
I guess I thought she'd hate me. Anyone else would have. But no—I knew better. I knew her well enough by then to know that she could never hate anybody. She would've forgiven me after I'd apologized—if I'd apologized.
But I didn't. I left. I didn't want to be forgiven. I wanted her to hate me, because that would make leaving her behind so much easier.
But then she came to New York. She skipped school for the first time in her life, and came all the way to New York to visit me. It was obvious that she thought I expected her, but it was one of the biggest surprises I'd ever had. I had perfected my mask of nonchalance years ago, and I could hide anything,
When she left, I said goodbye to her. But it relay didn't count, because, by that point, I had already made up my mind that I would see her again. It might have been possible for me to stay away, even knowing that she didn't hate me. But her visiting proved that she wanted me, too, even if she didn't know it yet.
So I came back. She kissed me. We fell in love. And I left. Again, without saying goodbye.
This time, I couldn't even speak to her on the phone when I called her—no matter how many times I tried. The final time, she did what I never could.
She said goodbye.
I could never say goodbye to her, because that would solidify that we were separate. If I never said goodbye, maybe the next "Hello" wouldn't be so unexpected.
If I never said goodbye, maybe I'd never have to.