All the Things You (Don’t) Owe Me

by Paloma Rosario Estess

I’m starting to think that we don’t owe each other anything. I mean we were only in each other’s lives for about a month. We were in that phase of getting to know one another through the things we saw. I learned that you loved to cook from all the healed burns and cuts on your hands and forearms. You learned that I was a bit impulsive from the remnants of bleached hair pulled back in my tight bun. And we learned from the things we heard. You learned that I loved country music from the way I belted it in the car. And I learned that you were raised with a soft touch, from how softly you spoke around me. But most of all, we learned from the way we seemed to feel around each other. Like the way I’d look directly into your eyes when we talked. And the way you pulled me in close when we didn’t.

Even though we had only gone out a hand full of times, every time we did, neither of us ever talked about how late it was getting. Maybe we were both scared that if we did, we’d think it was a hint for the other to go home. But I didn’t want that and neither did you. Like that time, you took me home by all the backroads and we listened to the radio and laughed about how bad I was at giving directions. I guess there’s nothing to lose now by telling you I got us lost on purpose. My town is small and there are only so many ways to get back from where you came. But you put your hand on my leg and so I let you turn right at the old gas station which I knew would lead us to a dead end. But you didn’t mind. Because it gave me enough time to reach over and run my hands through your hair. This is when I learned just how much product you used. Way too much if you ask me. But a couple weeks after, when you stayed over for the first time, and you had to wake up early and do your hair in my fogged bathroom mirror, I noticed how meticulous you were with each strand, how intensely you stared in the mirror, how you hadn’t noticed how intensely I stared at you. I learned that any excess product reflected the impatience you had for yourself.  

As time went on, I hoped you would start trusting me with more of you. I’d ask what you were thinking any time I felt your eyes linger on mine, or your hand gripped mine tighter or your voice trailed off in the middle of a thought. With every passing second, minute, hour, day, week of silence, I wondered what kept you from trusting me with all your noise. What would you have been afraid to tell me? Maybe you were afraid we were moving too quickly. Maybe you were afraid that if you asked to slow things down that I would have preferred to end things. Or maybe you wanted to move faster but worried I wasn’t ready. And maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I wouldn’t have been ready for what it was you wanted. But you never asked. Your eyes would continue to linger. And your hand grasped mine a bit tighter. And your silence lingered. And so, I did the only thing I could. I waited. And I trusted that with time, you would fill the silence. I thought that trust was guaranteed with time and that noise was guaranteed by trust. And now I’m sat here, wondering if I was ever owed such a guarantee.

Maybe I was wrong to believe any of that was owed to me. Not your noise, and certainly not your future. Maybe you didn’t owe me one more hello or a final goodbye. And maybe you never owed me an explanation of why you left. Maybe you still don’t. Because the notion that you owed me anything assumes that at some point, some part of you belonged to me and that’s just not true. I didn’t own your touch, your voice, your laugh, your smile. Just like you didn’t own mine.  

I guess the only thing we can do is hope people will choose to stick around. We hope people will say the things we need to hear. We hope people will see themselves as honestly and vulnerably as we do. And we hope that the expectations people have of us aren’t nearly as impossible as the ones we have for ourselves. All we have is hope. We have hope that even though the voice, laugh, touch and trust of the ones we love doesn’t belong to us and isn’t owed to us, that they will give them to us all the same.

Was I foolish to have hope? Was I being naïve? I don’t think so. Not when I consider where the hope came from. Mine came from all the hours and days and weeks spent together. From waking up to photos of that morning’s sunrise. From glasses of wine (that I pretended to like) and homemade apple pie. From meals together in the front seat and making out in the backseat. It came from sleeping wrapped in your arms and waking up to your eyes locked on mine. It came from the way you made me feel— like I didn’t have to ask to feel safe or heard. It came from the way you helped me realize I deserved to feel this way. And so, I began to put all these expectations on you, a person that didn’t owe me anything, because of all the times you showed me you wanted to be accountable to me. I guess I just never considered the possibility of you not staying.

Now bear with me as I digress for just a moment. You see, there is always an explanation for why things happen. The universe functions on the principal of cause and effect. On my first day of university, my professor stood at the front of the room, held up a tennis ball, and asked what we predicted would happen if she were to let it go. Of course, the immediate response of any student when asked a question with a seemingly obvious answer is to assume they are wrong. And so, we remained silent. We sat there, staring at the ball in her hand, second guessing everything we thought we knew about the elementary laws of physics. Until one brave soul broke the silence and shared with the masses what everyone was thinking. If the ball was dropped, it would fall to the ground. To all of our relief, this was in fact what we observed. But then she asked another question. What if when the ball dropped, it remained suspended? What if our expectations were wrong?

To be clear, I nor my professor are under the impression that the uncertainty surrounding the theory of gravity is in any way significant. In fact, my professor went on to tell us that it is far more likely that there are other forces resisting the effects of gravity. Sources of uncertainty do not always point to your perceptions being false, just incomplete. You see, gravity doesn’t owe us anything. Although it will always be there, there are other forces at play. Other forces we may have not anticipated. As much as we would like to think that the ball will fall each time we let it drop, the only way to know for certain, is to observe what happens when we do.

I say all this as a way of explaining to you and to myself that I know there is a reason why you left, why you chose the moment you did to be the end. Even if you don’t know the answer yourself, It’s ok. It is not true that we always know why we think the things we do, say the things we do, do the things we do. It may take you some time to understand why you chose that moment to be our last. And it’s very likely that if and when you ever do, I won’t be there to listen. And that’s ok. I am ok if you wish not to drop the ball. I can trust the way I felt around you and about you. I can trust in the way you looked at me and laughed with me. The way you touched me, kissed me, held me. I can trust it all. I can still trust that gravity is acting on the ball, even if it doesn’t fall to the ground.

Nevertheless, I miss you. And maybe you feel the same and maybe you don’t. I guess I just wanted you to know that I’m not mad that you left. I’m not mad if you don’t know why or that you do and you just couldn’t tell me. Because it’s part of you. Your reason for leaving me. And you don’t owe me that.

So, I can be ok with letting you go. I can be ok with never seeing you again. I can be ok with never calling out your name or hearing you call out mine. I can be ok without your laugh, your touch, your smile. I can be ok without late night drives and endless games of scrabble and photos of sunrays in the morning. I can be ok without early morning whispers while the other lay sleeping. I can be ok without loud conversations over even louder music or busy roads. And I can be ok with a tomorrow without you in it. I can be ok without you being here next week, or next year.

And more than anything, I am ok to sit alone with my thoughts. I am ok with all the things you left behind: Your shoes, and fortune cookie and lessons. Lessons of self-worth and self-respect. I am ok to ask questions I’ll likely never get the answer to. I am ok if the only person we owe anything to is ourselves. I am ok with that. Are you?