You already lost the part of me that matters most, Elias said. Staying friends is just keeping the ghost of us in the room. It’s a polite way of dragging out the funeral. I’d rather remember us as we were than watch us turn into two people who are careful about what they say to each other.
Let’s not stay friends, Mark, Elias repeated, his hand on the door handle. Let's just be people who once loved each other very much. That’s enough. let-s-not-stay-friends
The silence that followed wasn't the comfortable kind they were used to. It was sharp and jagged. Mark leaned back, his brow furrowed. You don’t mean that. You’re just hurt. You already lost the part of me that
I am hurt, Elias admitted, leaning forward. But that’s not why. If we stay friends, I’m going to call you when I have a bad day. I’m going to want to tell you about the promotion I might get, or the weird dream I had last night. And you’ll listen, because you’re a good person. So? Mark asked. That’s what friends do. I’d rather remember us as we were than
Elias looked at him. He saw the faint scar on Mark’s chin from a hiking trip in Oregon. He saw the sweater he’d bought Mark for his twenty-ninth birthday. He saw three years of shared grocery lists, inside jokes about bad horror movies, and the way they used to finish each other's sentences without trying. Let’s not, Elias said. Mark blinked, his thumb finally stilling. Let’s not what? Stay friends.