Standing outside in the cold, we began talking. The conversation that came about, however, was out of the ordinary because of one thing: I was doing most of the talking. The reason: I began talking about Jackie.
I do not exactly know how I began talking about her, but it just happened. Finally, I let my friends in on my secret life that I had had for the past four years. Christian was the only friend there who had ever met Jackie beforehand or even heard about her. For my other two friends, everything was fresh news.
I told them my story—the ins and outs. The freezing cold got the best of us and we all entered my car midway through my words. I finished my story inside, reaching the point where Jackie sent me the Christmas email saying that she was sorry. I told them about my reply to her, and every other detail that had come before that moment: the way we met, the confusion, etc.
Then, I felt like crying. My voice trembled as I told the story, but no tears ever came out. I felt as if I was incapable of getting emotional even if I forced myself. I was finally having the breakdown that I never had back when it mattered more.
The pain returned to my chest—the same pain that engulfed me when I heard Jackie’s reply to my request from her years before. It was the same contraction that made my chest cringe when I first read her email days before Christmas. I felt that pain every time I remembered my own story. I still feel traces of it to this day, but it has become faint, like my memories.
My friends seemed to be on my side when I told my story; of course, it may have been biased. Also, my story was missing a crucial part: Jackie’s emotions. I still did not know how she had felt throughout all of this. I never knew what she was thinking. I never knew if she was telling me the truth. I never knew her reasons for doing what she admittedly did.
I only had to wait a few more days before she finally told me.
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