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Stanley's thoughts no longer drifted to the Narrator quite as often as it used to anymore. He used to stare listlessly out of windows at the passing scenery, his gaze empty and his mind filled by the one person he had loved so deeply. He used to look at things - trinkets, drawings, whatever else - and know that person would've loved to see it. And every day, he'd look at the contact on his phone, glaring up at him. And he'd wonder if maybe, one day in the future, there could be another chance for them.
That little broken part inside of him that yearned for him still. That hoped that maybe, if the Narrator could handle his own problems better, there could've been a chance again. For them. That they could be happy again together, share joys and sorrows.
It was a little over three months ago now, that the Narrator had broken up with Stanley. He had claimed he wanted to stay friends, told Stanley he wants to keep him in his life. Even after saying he hadn't been happy in their relationship, had forced himself to be with him. He still wanted Stanley's friendship and closeness.
And Stanley had agreed. He had tried. But no longer as hard. He had been available as always, had responded every time the Narrator reached out with a text. But every reminder hurt. Every text, every word, every letter - it was another little stab into his chest. And he knew. He knew, and he hadn't wanted it to be so, but he knew.
Of course he couldn't be sure. But he truly, absolutely believed it: the Narrator couldn't give Stanley what he needed even just for friendship. He couldn't give Stanley what he needed for their romantic relationship, he hadn't been able to give what Stanley needed during their friendship leading up to it, and he hadn't given Stanley what he needed after their romantic relationship had ended either.
To Stanley, a romantic relationship wasn't far away from friendship. It felt a little different, there were some different wants and needs - but in the end, it felt like a friendship+ and nothing else. It was truly hard to explain, which was why Stanley had always been perfectly content to not label relationships at all in the first place - he liked to be a boyfriend or a husband or a wife or a partner. But they were just pet names. Nothing more.
Perhaps the Narrator thought differently. Perhaps they had been too different, actually incompatible. The Narrator had been a Taker. Taking comfort, taking presence, taking attention, taking love, taking whatever he wanted or needed at any given moment. Was only present whenever he chose to be present, but then still complained he "misses Stanley".
Stanley didn't want to blame the Narrator, because he was aware he hadn't been perfect either. He had never made his needs and wants aware, never spelled it out for the Narrator - had, a couple of times, told the Narrator that current circumstances made it impossible to make their relationship happier. And the Narrator had never asked. Had never asked directly and had never asked subtly. Had simply never thought to make Stanley tell him.
But it no longer mattered. One month ago, give or take, Stanley had sat at his desk and looked at his phone intently. He had typed, deleted, re-typed. Again and again. Until finally, Stanley had sent his last message to the Narrator. A short note - not a full explanation, not bringing in unnecessary feelings. One message for the Narrator to find once he next looked at his phone, whenever it would be.
And Stanley had deleted his contact. He hadn't waited for a reply to it, hadn't even waited to see until the Narrator had even seen the message at all. After he had sent the text, re-read it one more time, Stanley deleted the comment and let the heavy weight settle inside his chest. Had breathed. And he told his closest friend that he had done it, that he felt like crying - was already close to tears escaping him - and then he had gone to bed.
Because he knew that this was necessary. He knew that he had needed to do this, no matter how badly it hurt now.
And the month that had passed since had been a mixture of emotion. He thought of the Narrator, had longed for him, yearned for him. But Stanley knew, he knew, that he needed space. That the possibility of connection, but never how he truly needed it, would leave him bleeding and never healing. So distance would help - to remove himself from the blade embedded in his heart, to let the wound bleed until it ran dry. And then, he could heal.
Now, it was no longer sharp. The edges had smoothed, the wound healing. There was still an ache, but that was all that it was. An ache. A subtle thrum inside his chest, a little pang every time he thought of the Narrator in any capacity. Because he still loved the Narrator, he knew that with such clarity. Though, perhaps, it wasn't the Narrator that Stanley still loved.
He still loved how the Narrator had made him feel. He still loved the happiness they had shared. He still loved the memory of the Narrator's voice. He loved the feelings, he loved the memories of them. Because, as much as Stanley loathed to admit it - he had never actually known the Narrator enough to say he loved him. Because he had never known who "the Narrator" truly was. Never told, even when asked.
But even though Stanley knew that, he knew one horrible little truth deep in his heart was truth as well. If the Narrator ever showed up again- ever asked again- wanted him-
He would choose him again. He would say yes, he would be happy, he would cry and he would shake and he would fall apart because his heart was already smashed to dust and pieces, nothing to give anymore but still wanting to offer it to the one that had broken the last pieces of it.
Perhaps, that was one of the reasons why Stanley had to delete the Narrator's contact. Because, even though he wished it were different, he had already known: unless the Narrator could give and not only take, Stanley would only hurt again.
But Stanley hadn't said goodbye forever. He had left the possibility - for anything - open for the future. A gentle way to say "I want to be friends, still, but it's not possible for me right this moment". Because the Narrator still had Stanley's number. He still knew Stanley's socials, where to find him online. He even still had the contact of one of Stanley's close friends. Hew knew how to find Stanley - be it for indirect interaction or to directly text.
He could reach out to Stanley whenever he wanted. He could. He could do so from the day Stanley deleted his contact. And yet, Stanley knew that he wouldn't. No matter how much time would pass. While it had been the Narrator to text Stanley first during their existing relationships, this was something Stanley knew he wouldn't do.
And now, months after they had broken up, many weeks after Stanley had deleted the Narrator's contact, he was finally starting to feel genuinely okay. The situation as it was was finally okay. It was okay that the relationship and feelings would never happen again between them. It was okay that it happened and didn't last. No matter the lost fantasies of a future together. No matter the heartbreak. No matter the pain and the tears.
Though Stanley still wondered, just a little, what the Narrator had thought of that last message. If, and what, he might have said to Stanley in reply. He wondered about how it would have been, if he had only ever state exactly what he needed from their relationship (something that the Narrator had never been able to do himself). He wondered if a friendship couldn't have been possible somehow.
But it was no longer a huge concern for Stanley. It was a passing curiosity, nothing more. Questions that would never receive answers, and he was perfectly content with that. Because it didn't matter what could have been, the what-ifs. The past was in the past, something they couldn't change, and thus wondering and worrying about it did nothing but make the present miserable.
Now, Stanley is alone in his room. He had wondered at what point he could possibly reach out again to the Narrator, how much time apart was the right amount. He thinks about the very sparse words they had exchanged during the time of their post-break-up-friendship. He wondered what a friendship could possibly give him, truly and actually give him.
And he comes to the realization... that he doesn't need him. He truly doesn't need the Narrator back in his life. He doesn't have to ever reach out to the Narrator again, doesn't have to offer his hand and allow him back inside. He no longer has to keep the door open, to stand in the doorway and wait. He could let it close. Step away. And if there ever were a knock to come, he could answer then.
But he doesn't have to spend more energy on something, on someone, who wouldn't appreciate it properly. He doesn't have to offer to give anything anymore.
Still, there are so many things Stanley wishes he could tell the Narrator.
He wants to tell him that he still loves him, how he has felt towards him, how he could only truly name it after it was gone. He wants to tell him exactly what he needed from him, what a functioning relationship entailed for him. Make it clear to the Narrator that it was normal to have needs and wants and expectations of your friends and lovers. To tell him that he missed their relationship, to tell him just how happy it - he - had made him.
And he could tell him. He could write a letter and pour his heart out. Describe how broken he had been, describe how he had healed (and was still healing), describe the ache and longing and yearning. He wanted to send him all the folded little paper stars he had made, each bearing a hidden message inside, filled with love and well-wishes. To send the Narrator that shirt he had always wanted, to have something of Stanley's. To send him the little trinkets he had collected just for the Narrator. To tell him "I love you still. I'll always love you." and make sure the Narrator knew that Stanley didn't expect anything in turn.
He wanted to write page after page for the Narrator, even though he would never know how the Narrator would react to receiving a letter from him. Even though Stanley is fully aware that the Narrator had never - and would never - send him a letter in return. As if even a piece of paper was too much of a hassle to have it delivered to Stanley.
Truly, he had nothing physical of the Narrator. No gifts, no letters, not a hint of a presence. As if the Narrator had never actually been in Stanley's life at all. And he understood, sort of. He wasn't bothered either, sort of. It was simply how it was, because Stanley had never expected it, and the Narrator had never shown a want to give Stanley anything either.
But perhaps, Stanley shouldn't write to him. To simply leave the man in the knowledge of that one last little message, a subtly little invitation to reconnect if the Narrator wished to reach out. Stanley didn't owe the Narrator anything.
So perhaps, simply existing on his own and healing was enough. To close this chapter of his life and move on. To let the Narrator fade away into one of many scars - both physical and psychological. He didn't have to cling, to continue hoping, to keep pressing into the ache instead of letting it heal.
It did ache, but Stanley smiled softly. This felt like the right thing to do. To focus purely and completely on himself, and his few close friends he wouldn't give up for the world. He didn't need the Narrator. He could leave him and his memories behind, in the past, where they belonged.