I was in line at a random grocery store after work, half zoned out, staring at the stupid gum display, when I heard my old last name said out loud. Not in my current-life voice either, but that old sing-song way kids used to do it when they were about to be mean. I turned and there he was. Same guy who made middle school feel like a daily humiliation ritual. He used to call me “ghost” because I was pale and quiet, he’d kick my backpack down the stairs, and once he dumped my binder in a trash can and told everyone I smelled like wet paper. I remember laughing along because it was either that or cry and become even more of a target. I have replayed those scenes in my head for years, like if I review them enough I can edit them into something less pathetic. He looked genuinely happy to see me. Like, bright smile, eyebrows up, casual, “oh my god, hey, it’s been forever.” He said my name correctly, which almost felt worse, and asked where I’ve been. I mumbled something about moving away for college and coming back, and he nodded like we were old classmates who just lost touch. Then he did the thing people do when they’re trying to prove they’re normal now: he asked about my family, he said he remembered I was “really good at art”, he even made a joke about how our town never changes. I could smell his laundry detergent or cologne or whatever and it made my stomach flip because it was so clean and adult and it did not match the kid in my head. At some point he said, very casually, “I was such an asshole back then, sorry if I ever gave you a hard time.” Not a big apology. Not specific. Just tossed out like a pebble into a pond.
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And I waited for my moment. The movie scene where I finally feel powerful, or at least relieved. I waited for anger, satisfaction, tears, anything. Instead I felt this blank, dumb heaviness like my brain just shut a door. I smiled because my body knows how to be polite even when I’m freaking out, and I said “yeah, it was a while ago.” That’s it. That was my big line. He paid for his stuff, patted my shoulder like we were buddies, and walked out.
I sat in my car after and just stared at the steering wheel until my hands stopped shaking. I hated myself for being nice. I hated myself for not saying the truth. I also hated myself for still caring, because he clearly doesn’t. He gets to be a normal adult who apologizes in one sentence and then goes home and sleeps. I get to carry around a whole closet full of old shame that still fits me. I always pictured closure as this clean snap, like a thread breaking. Turns out it’s more like realizing the thread is wrapped around your ribs and you’ve been breathing around it for years. I drove home with groceries I didn’t even remmeber buying and I couldn’t stop thinking: if this is what “winning” looks like, it kinda sucks.
