About Another Her...

The other half of the mirror: a raw confession of a woman who wasn't a goddess on a pedestal, but a soul looking for a shelter in a collapsing world.

Memories of those teenage days always bring a smile to my face—not a mocking one, but the real kind, the kind I can barely even feel today, in my forties. Ah, those were wonderful days, known only to the two of us. I remember that very first encounter, standing frozen in my tracks the moment I noticed him. He was the embodiment of everything beautiful in this world, such a heartthrob, as if he had torn through a massive movie screen that exact second and walked into the club; Johnny Depp himself would have envied his looks, his attitude, and honestly, his acting. We stood there, frozen, staring at each other, only to spend the next few months still playing the roles we had assigned to one another. And all of it lasted and lasted and lasted for years, until, after four years, he decided to leave... to leave for some other, sunnier country that seemed to offer far more opportunities. I remember crying like rain when I found out he was leaving; I knelt right in the middle of the street and fell apart weeping. I remember seeing no meaning in any new day without that... without that gaze.

​And then came May—the end of May that same year, to be exact—and someone I used to call the "Tall Boy" appeared completely by chance. He was sweet, he was interesting, he was... different. I had never had a boyfriend before, and I wanted to change that. I remember him approaching me in the club, saying it would be much better if we went outside for a walk because the music was too loud and there were too many people around us. We walked, and knowing that his gang of friends had a bit of a bad reputation because of drugs, I told him straight away that I didn't support that, and that he should walk me home immediately if he consumed any of it himself. To be clear, to me, even weed was a drug. He said he didn't do it, and we continued our walk by the river. He talked about everything, I remember, while I... I was preparing myself for that first kiss. And then, at one point, we reached the most romantic spot beneath an old oak tree whose branches lowered all the way to the river, and I waited, certain that I was about to be kissed. No, nothing happened. He just kept talking about his family. After a five-hour walk, he escorted me home; I remember it as if it were yesterday. In front of my house, the two of us, and him using his foot to draw a heart in some sand scattered there, speaking with a stutter: "Would you... if I could... well... I’d like to... to ask you... I’d like to ask you something." And he asked if he could kiss me. I rejected him, solely because he didn't have the courage to just do it right then and there. I told him that if he wanted to kiss me tomorrow, he had to have a different approach.

​And the next day, everything truly changed. We became a couple, boyfriend and girlfriend, stepping gently through our relationship. It was beautiful—not idyllic, just beautiful—up until the moment the one I loved the most returned from that other country. And then, I wanted to love them both, and I tried, but I never succeeded. I remember it was December, and both of them were putting effort into me, completely unaware of the other's existence. Though, the man I loved most in the world was aware that there was someone else I cared about, and he refused to allow it. He fought for me. With glances, with attention, with his presence, with accidental touches in passing, and with that magnetic gaze that was the only thing keeping me alive, and then... then, at the end of December, it happened. The night before New Year's Eve, it happened—I kissed him for the first time, and no, he never asked if he could kiss me. The Tall Boy and I broke up on the third of January. It turned out, to my deepest sorrow, that he had been doing drugs the entire time we were together. I sat in front of the club, deeply hurt; I wanted to go inside and either slap him across the face or hug him—it wouldn't have mattered if I had done either, I would have felt the exact same way. The cigarette hadn’t even burned halfway down, and I was already halfway home. The man I loved most in the world left for another country shortly after, I left for a third, and we were all separated—mind, body, and soul.

​And then, I married some completely irrelevant guy. I remember it was our ten-year high school reunion; I returned to my town, and I thought of the Tall Boy. I was always curious about where he was, what he was doing, and how he was. I remember when I first discovered Facebook, he was the very first person I looked up. And back then, he told me there wasn't a mouse hole on earth where he could hide from me. That was also when he found out I was married and expecting a baby. I always wanted to know how he was, and I would never miss a chance to wish him a happy Slava and a happy birthday to his brother. Often, while he was on that ship, I would leave a comment under every single one of his photos, to support him and let him know he wasn't entirely alone. Once, he posted a picture of daisies; he never told me those daisies were for me, but I knew he had given them to me, and to this day, I still keep that picture.

​And then... then came that high school reunion, and I went back to my town. I reached out to him, and somehow we ended up in the same club—me, a little tipsy, and him, forever longing for me. He loved me, truly and for real, until... until he realized that it wasn't love. I remember how he left me in front of the club ten years prior, but I couldn't remember why; I only remembered the feeling. And so, that very night in the club, we agreed to meet by the stage. And we went—him first, and I followed after. He was waiting for me by the school stairs, looking a bit scared, strange, full of longing. I asked him if I should take his arm or if we were just going to walk like this? I took his arm. When we walked up the stairs, I stopped in the middle of the street and spread my arms, starting to spin around my own axis because I felt that exact moment when you know you have just returned to a past time, right here, right now. I wanted to feel that way forever—to have someone so familiar next to me, yet so distant because of the years that had passed, and yet, despite everything, so close. We reached the stage and I wanted to sit on the low wall, but he anticipated it, placing his scarf under my seat. The silence was too loud, so I decided to break it with cruel facts. I told him I was married and that whatever happened wouldn't change the fact that I was in a marriage. I approached him, and he hugged me tightly, warmly, and familiarly. Both of us wanted something more, only we no longer knew how to put that "more" into words. He walked me home. I suppose it was something I didn't have in my marriage, and I suppose it was something he knew how to do without me having to ask. A warm hug, understanding, and the feeling of him walking me home. I loved him in a human way—more than a husband, but less than the one I loved most in the world. His love for me reawakened only when he found out I was pregnant and married; I suppose you only realize you love someone once you lose them, or maybe that’s just when you want them. Once I came—it was on some completely foolish date, somewhere between January and February, or between March and April, sometime before the floods; let’s say it was the end of March. Back then, he was messaging me, and you could see he knew exactly what he wanted. It looked very tempting to me, considering my marriage was completely falling apart—it was only a matter of days before we would walk away from each other, my husband from me or me from him. The Tall Boy told me where to come and how to find him there. We each drank a beer, and it happened. It lasted a very short time, and it ended very quickly.

​I was his unfulfilled fantasy, and at the exact moment I fulfilled myself and ceased to be a fantasy, he... he got married that summer.

Since I've been a waitress my whole life, I feel like I must have a tip jar even here.