sanctuary. Look around. What the hell does this say about me if this is my supposed sanctuary!” I flung the wardrobe open now, my feelings running away with me. “Look! Look! What do you see?”
Noah came up next to me and peered over my shoulder, I turned to face him and raised my brows. He didn’t say anything. “Well, what do you see?” I pressed.
Noah ran his hand over the clothes inside the cupboard. “I see the same thing.”
“Exactly. You see the same thing over and over again. Repeated. Slight color variations, but the same thing. I must wear the same clothes every single day. Beige, gray, navy or black slacks. White, gray, navy or black button-up shirt. And look at these shoes, they’re utterly hideous. I clearly choose comfort over looks, that’s for sure.”
“Well, maybe you need to be . . . practical? For your job? Perhaps you’re on your feet a lot.”
“Practical? I’m a graphic designer or a copywriter, I’m sure I sit all day and I . . .” I paused. “Wait, I’m not a creative. I can’t be.” I face-palmed and held my head in my hands. “Oh God. How is this possible? That I got everything so wrong?”
“Hey, hey.” Noah reached up for my shoulder again, but this time I sought no comfort from it at all. I pulled away.
“No. I got it all wrong. This is who I am.” I walked back into the lounge and pulled the list out. “And as for this!” I held it in the air. “It’s all crap. Made-up stuff. Imaginary stuff, I’m not . . . a good friend.” I read off the list. “My neighbors don’t think so, anyway. In fact, you could go as far as saying that my neighbor hates me!”
“I’m sure she doesn’t ha—” Noah tried to interject, but I cut him off.
“And I’m certainly not creative and fashionable, you’ve seen my wardrobe. No hippies in sight. And I don’t like colors! The only color I like is beige, apparently. I don’t like plants, or pictures or photos or anything like that!” I looked back at the list and huffed. “Feminine?! HA! Nothing feminine about that wardrobe or this apartment. And I’m not brave—look at me, I can’t even handle a germ, it seems. Who owns that many disinfectants? Me, apparently. Zen Small. Non-adventurous Zen Small.”
“Stop!” Noah said, coming towards me. But I backed away. I was overcome by a new feeling now. The one that had started in my belly had morphed into something else now. Rage. Rage and hurt, and it wanted to lash out. I looked at the list once more before ripping it up. I shredded it and let the little pieces fall to the floor, as all the things I had thought about myself fell away too.
“Don’t do that,” Noah said.
“Why? None of it is me.” I walked backwards, my shoulder blades hitting the cold, hard beige wall. I slid down onto the floor, pulling my knees towards me and gripping them tightly.
“I got it so wrong,” I hissed.
Noah put his arm over my shoulder and pulled me towards him. This was the closest we had ever been.
“You don’t have to have got it wrong,” he said softly.
But something about that statement made me furious. It was hard to say what. I flicked my head up and glared at him.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“It means that you don’t have to be this. You can be the person you thought you were, that I know you to be. This doesn’t have to be you.”
“But it is me!” I said, getting riled up.
He shook his head. “No. It’s not.”
“Yes. It is,” I shot back.
“Well, I don’t know you like this. And I think I’ve gotten to know you a little over the past four days—”
“No! What you got to know was not me! You got to know some strange, amnesiac version of me. Maybe I was a little mad this last week. I’d just lost my memory, clearly. I wasn’t myself. Clearly something came over me and I was acting out. Making stuff up. Playing some fantastical game of pretend in my empty head. And that’s who you think you know. That person. Some fictitious, make-believe version of myself that isn’t real. It was all imaginary. It was made up!” I was rambling, jumping from thought to thought. It was a strange feeling to suddenly have so many thoughts in my head, but I did, and they filled my head