making the bed

I need to be more fun.

“We never do anything fun anymore,” he complains, as I fight back tears, begging to be heard. We had a good run of fun. I went on family trips and partied with his friends and cut off the people I loved that he was jealous of. I put up with his yelling and random girls in his room and still made his bed in the morning. Where’s my trophy for faking happiness those last six months? There isn’t much more I could’ve done. He’ll inevitably realize it later, after all the fun is gone and the absence of me leaves his bedroom feeling hollow.

I’ll show the next one fun.

“You were just a fun time,” he announces, being vindictive over the phone to regain some control. I knew he was lying then, laughing in disbelief. I was a fun time. I charmed his friends and held my liquor and dressed the way he wanted me to. I looked away when he cried in the restaurant and listened to him talk about his search fund while I made his bed that I built with him in the morning. It’s here that I learned that men can dilute and belittle and invalidate as much as they want, but they can’t rewrite history.

I was a fun time - but not just that.

“Me neither. I like this, we have fun,” he responds, smoothing over my frustration and lack of standards, but my anxieties are still there. I can’t be too upset at the situation I’ve put myself in - I’m finally a fun time. I’ll dance under the disco ball and bite my tongue and let him sleep in late on Sundays. I’ll drape my hand over his shoulder at the bar and ignore the other girl’s hair in the bathroom and make his bed in the morning. It’s all fun and games when I act out the role of an avoidant, like I don’t care where I rank in his mind. But when the club lights come on, my flight is ready for check-in and it’s time to order an Uber home, I start to see this for what it is. A wise woman would say these things out loud, and a wiser woman would leave. But I’m neither of those things.

I’m just simply fun.