Page 25 of Run To You
When?
Just that one word, and a million possibilities. It’s so purely Eden, it knocks the breath right out of my lungs. Ialmost tell her to meet me here and now, but my shirt smells like three consecutive days of nervous sweat, and my closet situation is a textile avalanche waiting to happen. So, I buy myself a sliver of time and type…
You
Today? After three? My place or yours?
I’m so proud of myself for giving options that I nearly cry.
Eden
Yours. I’ll bring caffeine if you supply cookies.
My face flushes, even though nobody can see me. I toss my phone on the bed and flop down next to it, limbs akimbo like a crime scene outline. This is happening. This is actually…maybe…finally happening.
But first, I have a closet to rifle through.
My closet is a study in opposites: half aspirational athleisure, half oversized hoodies because I became obsessed once Eden introduced me to their wonderful comfiness.
Every “normal” item has been overthought into oblivion. I have one pair of good jeans that I trust not to betray me with surprise camel-toe, and a single black V-neck that doesn’t itch or accentuate the wrong things.
I lived in a sports therapy uniform for the majority of college, and during my dark days, I didn’t exactly feel like shopping for new items. Mom kept a lot of my old clothes in the house, but I don’t feel like they’re me anymore. Something I need to add to my “To Do” list: Find my new style and update my closet.
I try on both in quick succession. The jeans are looser than I remember, which is a side effect of my non-existent appetite over the past several years. Thankfully it’s returning to normal now, so I should pack on a few needed pounds. I would like to get back to the level offitness I enjoyed when I was eighteen, which means some serious gym time.
The V-neck is safe, but paired together they scream “midwestern retail worker about to clock in for the closing shift.” Not the vibe I was going for.
I rotate through half the closet, tossing rejects onto the bed: the blue dress with the weird armpit stains, the skirt that only works if I stand perfectly still, the blouse that’s too “sexy librarian” and not enough “stable adult.” By the end, my room looks like a TJ Maxx clearance rack had an emotional breakdown.
There is nothing to wear. I sit on the floor, surrounded by failed identities, and text Becca in a fit of desperation. The message is mostly emojis: crying face, closet, pants, explosion. She responds with a laughing gif, followed by…
Becca
I’m ten minutes away. On my lunch. Don’t you dare change until I get there!
This is both a threat and a comfort. If anyone can handle my spiraling it’s Becca. She’s been field-testing my crisis management for half my life. It’s a shame I couldn’tsee that when I was checking out of my life and melting down.
I do as instructed and sit on the floor in my underwear, legs crisscrossed, scrolling Instagram to distract myself. Every so often I catch sight of my reflection in the closet mirror. I flex my toes, then my fingers, then do the little grounding thing Dr Chen taught me. Name five objects you see, four sounds you hear, three things you can touch.
I see discarded denim, my phone, a succulent, the bed, and my running shoes.
I hear the birds outside, the hum of the fridge, a distant siren, my own pulse in my ears.
I touch the soft hem of a sweater lying on the floor, the cold tiles, the rough edge of my split thumbnail.
It helps…a little.
By the time Becca’s knock comes I’m almost human again. I pull on the closest hoodie and shuffle to the door. She’s standing there in the sun holding a Tupperware of carrot sticks and hummus. She takes one look at me and cackles.
“You weren’t kidding. The nuclear option.”
“I’m two bad outfit changes from becoming a cautionary meme,” I cry, letting her in. “Help.”
She surveys the wreckage. “Wow. This is…a mess.”
“I want to look nice, but not like trying to look nice. Is that a thing?”
“It’s definitely a thing.” Becca pokes at the pile with her foot. “For you, it’s maybethething.”
