Day Four

Doubt thou that the stars are fire;
Doubt though that the sun doth move;
Doubt truth to be a liar;
But never doubt that I love. - Shakespeare, Hamlet

I woke up horrified by the sight of my hair, made many hundred times worse by the fact that I now have a giant mirror in my room to confirm it.

After some grooming, however, it synchronised quite well with my pale skin. But despite the fact that it brought out my eyes, I'm beginning to regret the decision. High-maintenance isn't something I could easily afford. Financial burden aside, I haven't the mental capacity.

I have voices in my head that talk to me. There's my favourite one that quietly points out every fatty in the Krispy Kreme queue and makes me run as quickly as my legs could carry me in the opposite direction. There's the one that instructs me, however unsuccessfully, to study. There's one that tells me my top clashes with my skirt.

The one that has supernatural perception of boys told me that high-maintenance has never been so necessary. I've been wearing the same outfit who knows how many days in a row and my hair has been stuck as a bun on top of my head for so long that I forgot I had any. Until my stupid trip to the hairdresser's yesterday.

It's probably right. Looking one's best is nearly a prerequisite to being single (there I said it, I hope you're happy). Besides, even in the absence of any potential Edward Cullens there's always the off chance I'd bump into Jez. And if by good fortune he had remembered me being beautiful, that would probably go out the window the minute his eyes fall on my unkempt self.

Nevertheless it doesn't change the fact that I haven't the mental capacity. Being forced to look after my hair is already pushing it. And the fact that Phil and Alan's 21st tonight pushes me so far off the edge that I seriously considered not showing up. I haven't been eating. I'm skinny. My skin looks more tired than Mirjana does at the end of the day. I have a permanent look of misery plastered on my face. A pretty dress isn't going to fix any of that.

Jez had said some things to me last night. Mostly revolving around demanding that I stop talking to him and that he doesn't like me. I've already met my quota of psychological distress for the year. Nothing anyone says or does could make me feel any worse. As a result I found Jez's remarks nothing but irksome.

At night I lay in bed, fuming. There I was, tucking my hands under my arms to stop myself from calling him to demand an elaboration. There I was giving him exactly what he wanted. It didn't sit well with me, and despite the fact that I was uncontrollably sleepy, I reached for my phone in a spurt of recklessness and decided to ring him until he either answers or switches his mobile off. I justified my actions. Every damage has already been done. Everything has been lost. There was nothing left to be taken away from me.

The call was short. I had no idea what I wanted to say to him because I banked on him refusing to answer the phone. So I made something up. I have to tell you something, I said, knowing that I wouldn't have to think of what, because he'd never let me say it. I was right. Send me an email, he said, and hung up.

Oh and he said that he hated me.

I couldn't stay awake long enough to properly contemplate it. In the morning, I woke up feeling as though the anger had been brewing while I was unconscious. Nobody hates me, least of all the boy to whom I was once everything. And if he claims otherwise, I wanted to know why.

So in spite of myself, I called.

"What do you want."

We stumbled around with hostilities on his behalf morning-mumbles on mine. Eventually he told me what I had called to find out.

"I hate you," he said. "I've hated you for awhile. You're boring. You're immature. I dreaded seeing you. I dragged it on because I felt sorry for you. I hurt you because it was fun. I wanted to see you do all those immature things you do."

And even though it didn't make any sense at all, I believed him, at the same time marvelling his acting. Nobody could say "I love you" to someone they didn't love with such conviction. I wanted to yell at him to go to take up acting and slam the phone into the wall, but instead I pointed out that either he's lying now or he was lying ten minutes ago when he said he didn't want to hurt me.

He told me I can go figure out which one it is.

"It's not a puzzle," I said, "It isn't about what I want or don't want to hear, and it isn't about what would hurt me less or hurt me more. It's just the truth. Tell me the truth."

He paused. "Do you really want to know the truth?"

"Are you going to tell me the truth?"

"Do you want the truth?"

"Yes."

Okay, I thought. He's going to tell me he doesn't hate me, but that he doesn't have any other feelings for me either. He's going to tell me he has moved on. He's going to tell me he's interested in someone else. He's going to tell me he's gay with Craig. Sometimes the word "truth" sounds far more threatening than it has the right to, and every microsecond that passed before he spoke again my mind fabricated a hundred more horrifying possibilities. My certainty wavered. I wondered if I really wanted to know, after all.

His voice was suddenly quiet. "I love you. I love every part of you."

And then I started crying.

Letting something go to see if it comes back. This isn't really like that, is it.

More like, marinating the chicken before it bakes.