Him
“So alone,” he said as he wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me closer as we laid side by side. My body stiffened at his words as he whispered again, “I’ve never been with somebody so alone before.” My throat constricted against a lump that hadn’t been there before. He continued, “You’re so alone in the world.”
Perhaps I pushed him to say it. I baited him with my isolation, thousands of miles away from home. I’d willingly given up my friends, my faith, not for him but for my own welfare. Our relationship materialized out of that isolation. When I threw in the towel on my strict Mormon standards and decided to bend the rules.
Tears slid from my eyes, dampening my pillow. I was grateful he couldn’t see the depth of my pain as I absorbed his words. My eyes focused on the black web of mold growing up the wall behind my desk, nearly hidden by my landlord’s strategically placed lamp.
The dank, rotten smell of the townhouse had gone virtually unnoticed when I viewed the room for the first time. Desperate to escape my overbearing housemate, I’d found a room in a small ground-floor apartment with a single mother and her ten-year-old daughter. I noticed the artwork, the velvet sofa in the living room, and the sunroom leading off the kitchen, bordered by a lush green garden. But I hadn’t noticed the lattice of mold creeping behind the furniture or the damp sweat of the walls that pooled on my nightstand as I slept.
It was the first thing he noticed as he carried my luggage in from the car. Two suitcases and armfuls of home goods I used to decorate my previous home in Ealing, now stuffed into a single bedroom in Hammersmith.
I didn’t know what to say, so I settled for silence until he faded into sleep, and I tried to ease the pit in my stomach. He was my only friend, my only family. To refute those words would be to refute the truth. I was alone, more alone than I had ever been before. I was unwanted by my Mormon community and essentially cast out. He knew it. I knew it.
It was hard to fathom what he saw in me, what kept him tethered to my side through the sudden and unexpected shifts in my life. I felt overwhelmingly lucky to have him. Not just because he was somebody, but because he was him. Anything unpleasant, any words that sliced across my skin, or tugged at my heart, were small in comparison to him. To the way I smiled or the way we laughed. It had been easy to love him, easy to be grateful for him.
He left early the next morning, getting a headstart at work. I showered when the house was empty, creeping around unseen and unheard, to avoid ruffling feathers or unpleasant conversations. I was desperate to call my mom, but I couldn’t do that until 2 PM, which was 7 AM back home. I wouldn’t tell her what he said as I fell asleep last night. Unsure why I censored our interactions when I had always told her everything.
I didn’t know why I had started lying to my mom. Weeks prior, I started fabricating details, taking things he said that had caused me to pause, caused me pain, and rewrote them into something better. I didn’t have space to dwell on this change, to inspect the apprehension that tugged at my brow. I was lucky. I was so lucky.
I threw on my clothes and a bit of makeup, rushing out the door and into the city, where my thoughts slowed as my mind became more present. I liked my commute, the predictability of the tube, and the smell of coffee as I left Baker Street. I liked the security of being a student when nothing else defined me but my grades, where my presence was wanted by my teachers and peers. Where I could speak intellectually about topics outside of the Gospel, the meaning of life, or my blemished soul. There were no limitations on where my mind could wander at University.
But I still lied when my classmate asked about him.
