Sometimes I like to write fiction. Short stories or micro-fiction as I have recently discovered, are some of my favorite pieces to write because I love dropping into a moment, wherever the characters are in their lives. The reader doesn’t know the whole story, but they’re intrigued to learn more and often, the ending gives you just enough, but not everything.
Enjoy my latest, inspired by a story a friend shared with me, that I wrote while tea-drunk on matcha after an all-you-can-drink matcha event in Chinatown on O’ahu.
It was glorious.
I knew something was wrong.
I’ve known for quite some time, but just didn’t want to face it.
Not until now.
Not until the eyelash.
One single fake eyelash and my whole world has turned completely upside down.
What. The. Fuck.
I sat down on the boring beige carpet and leaned against Jackson’s wall. I say Jackson’s wall because he insisted we have our own bedrooms. His sleep issues are so severe that he can’t sleep with anyone in his bed, so we needed separate bedrooms. I always thought it was a little bit weird, but I compared him to Jason from Gilmore Girls and decided it was chic, maybe a little eccentric.
Fucking chic? More like fucking stupid.
I pinched the fake eyelash between my thumb and forefinger, holding it so I could examine the thing. It was one of those little clusters, the kind you add to the corner of your eyes for a little something extra. The kind I definitely don’t use because the only time I ever had fake eyelashes was for my sister’s wedding two years ago. Before we ever lived here.
I took a deep breath and looked around Jackson’s room. I rarely come in here. When we have sex, he usually comes to my room. He’s always acted like his room is his sacred space, so I never felt all that comfortable coming in here.
For the most part, he’s pretty neat. Bed made, and nothing but a clock, a David Foster Wallace novel, and a glass of water on his nightstand. I take a few slow breaths as I keep looking around. He has a picture of his parents on his dresser and a photo of him and some buddies at a Dodgers game a few years back. On the wall is a caricature of his old dog that someone gifted him two Christmases ago.
I’m struck by the realization that I am nowhere to be found in here. If a person walked into his room, they would not guess he has a girlfriend. They’d probably assume he is single, considering there is zero evidence whatsoever of a woman in his life.
Well, except for this eyelash. A single eyelash cluster on the floor next to the side of the bed that I know he does not sleep on, because he must sleep on the right side, anywhere we go.
I’m full of questions:
When was this left here?
Who left it?
How often has she been here?
Is she pretty?
Is it a regular thing or a one-time thing?
How did they meet?
Does she know about me?
Does he like her more?
How long has this been going on?
Is she better in bed than me?
Why does he want separate rooms so badly?
How did I not know?
Do his friends know?
Where the fuck is he now?
I feel panic rising in my chest as I try to keep it together. I’m at that delicate state where if I don’t stay angry, I’ll fall apart.
Jackson loves a minimal space. I always felt that our living room and kitchen looked like they belonged in the staged apartment that the building shows potential renters. There’s no personality at all. He always says that a minimalist space creates a peaceful mind, and that sounded enticing considering how chaotic my life has always felt. Whenever he said that, though, I felt a kernel of shame. He knows my life is chaotic, and that was something I was self-conscious about. I told myself he said this because he wanted better for me, but was it that he wanted better for me, or did he want to feel better than me?
I dropped my head back against the wall and closed my eyes, envisioning our apartment beyond his door. There’s one picture of us on the table in the entryway, we’re at some birthday party for a friend of his. There’s another photo of us from my sister’s wedding on the TV stand. In both pictures, we’re in a group. Not one photo is just us, and not one photo is obviously the two of us together; we’re clustered with other people, easily passing as a giant group of friends.
Fuck.
Other than that, I have some artwork on the walls, but no one would know it belongs to his girlfriend. We usually keep our bedroom doors closed so that our “personal messes” don’t disrupt the common areas. No one can see the pictures of us that I have in my room.
Fuck.
My stomach oscillates between feeling hollow and nauseous.
Fuck.
I feel the tears threaten to drop, and I open my eyes instead.
On some level, I wish I never found this. I wish my head were still in the sand, that everything were fine, and that I could continue with my Tuesday, my one day off from work. I think of my one single day and how it’s now ruined.
I’m grateful I can’t see my reflection right now because if I could, I know these tears would fall.
I work three jobs to cover most of our rent. He’s working with one of his buddies who is getting a business off the ground, and I’m the girlfriend who somehow slipped into supporting him. Jackson can’t have a full-time job because he has to “devote time to his start-up.”
I still don’t understand what he’s starting up, but it’s something “really big, man.”
A million thoughts run through my mind, and I feel a heat of rage simmer over my whole body.
Fuck.
He turned my life upside down. I feel like I’m in one of those hamster balls, but instead of using it to run around, it’s out of control, and I’m rolling inside of it as it moves.
I feel a frenzy bubbling up as I take controlled breaths.
I picture tearing his neat room apart, cutting his face out of every picture of us I have, and leaving them scattered throughout the apartment. I could destroy something. I could shatter that stupid whiskey decanter set he insists on displaying in the kitchen. The one thing that can stay out in the kitchen.
He loves that fucking thing.
One eyelash.
Fuck this eyelash. I wish I could properly throw it against the wall and feel the satisfaction of a slam or a shatter, but instead, I lay it on the ground for now. I wipe my face, take one final breath, and stand up. I feel an eerily calm sensation as I exit his room and head for mine.
The fact that I’m walking to my room separate from my boyfriend’s in our apartment is wild, and I feel fueled by this thought. I pull my auburn hair back into a high ponytail as I grab my luggage from under my bed, and I start throwing things in - all of the clothes from my closet, my toiletries in the bathroom, the few books I have, and my shoes. Everything I can fit into two suitcases and a large LL Bean duffel, I have had since I was a teenager. It even has my initials monogrammed on it - KNK.
When I finish with my room, I scan the kitchen and living room before taking it all out to my car. As I walk back into the apartment, I realize it doesn’t look much different. A couple of things are missing, but nothing significant. As if I weren’t a significant presence here, as if I didn’t leave an imprint on the space, like I was never actually here. I didn’t have much to begin with, I guess.
I walk back into his room and pick up that eyelash, staring at it for a moment before getting a brilliant idea. I’m so jazzed by the thought of it that I practically run into the kitchen for a Post-it note.
I grab a black marker and smirk as I look at the yellow square. Once I’m done, I stick it to the kitchen counter with the eyelash and leave the apartment.
My emotions are a metaphorical bag of Chex Mix right now, and I drive in a daze. I don’t remember making any turns or changing any lanes, but somehow I end up exactly where I was supposed to. I pull into the parking lot and get out of my car before I lose any nerve. I grab my duffel bag first and make my way into the building’s courtyard after using the key fob I claimed to have lost.
The fountain in the center bubbles, and the lush greenery planted everywhere still makes me smile. I always loved this apartment building. It’s an open-air type of building, so you’re not completely enclosed. In Southern California, rain and bad weather aren’t much of an issue, and it’s nice to have the option of sitting in the courtyard to feel like you’re outside. It gives the illusion of nature smack in the middle of the city.
I know the way by heart, I could find the door with my eyes closed if I had to.
Number 314, “House of Pi,” we always called it. I take a deep breath and knock on the dark red door. After a moment, it opens, and part of me wants to bolt.
“Kelsey,” she says with surprise.
“Hi, Kat.” I nod to my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. “You were right.”
Kat takes a deep breath, nods her head slowly, and opens the door wider for me to go in. I can’t move. I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Instead, I start sobbing. I drop my bag and feel Kat’s arms wrap around me as I ugly cry into her shoulder.
🍵 Support my work by buying me a matcha! I have some lofty goals and dreams for my writing and I appreciate any support my readers offer me 🫶
📘 Want your first Book of the Month book for $5? Click here to start your new favorite subscription.
👉 Want more of Sending You Love💌? Follow us on Instagram and Pinterest.
👠 Looking for my thoughts on business? Follow me on LinkedIn.
Very beautifully written. I got lost in it. 💕
This is so well written and relatable <3 thank you for sharing