Even back in high school, Skype was buggy on a good day. And while texting had been the communication method of choice when I was growing up, when we needed a way to communicate without our phones, Skype was one of the better options. Regrettably. There were only about a handful of people I communicated with on Skype, but it housed most of our high school group chats.
And I had missed out on approximately 8 years worth of chat.
I was absolutely positive my high school friend group had moved on to better methods of communication after we all graduated--after all, there were a thousand new applications out there that worked way better, and most social media sites had evolved to include some form of instant messaging. So, it more than likely wasn’t a whole eight years’ worth of messages popping up one after the other in a symphony of noise.
But it sure sounded like eight years’ worth of messages popping up one after the other in a symphony of noise.
And when my desktop, which was barely clinging to life as it was, finally settled down, I let out a breath of relief. Of course, I had no intention of checking my old skype account. I didn’t need to know what people had been up to while I was away. I didn’t need to see the endless DMs they probably sent me, wondering where I was. That was behind me.
One last, solitary jingle drifted through my speakers. Another notification, separate from the rest. This one wasn’t old, though.
It was recent.
It had to be, or it would have come in at the same time as all the others.
Curiosity bubbled in the pit of my stomach, and against my better judgment, I clicked on the application to open it.
As I suspected, it was still logged into my old account. And there were hundreds of messages. Hundreds. Of course, there were all the messages from the group chats I had unwittingly abandoned, but there were also a lot of DMs--from all the friends I left behind. Messages I was far too afraid to click on, but were dated seven years old at least. The group chats were more recent, but the newest message was still three years old.
Everything was old, abandoned, forgotten.
All except for the chat at the very top of the list, dated only seconds ago.
Duncan.
Or, as he was known on Skype, The Dunkman.
I gulped, every logical thought fleeing my mind in a mass exodus. There was nothing up there but static, and a cloudy but overwhelming feeling of dread. My mind refused to catch up with my body, and I clicked to open the message.
The Dunkman, 7:32 PM
Hey, Dawny. Me again. It’s been a while, huh? I think it’s been a year since my last message. Sorry about that, by the way. I meant to keep you up to speed, like I promised after you left, but life, ya know? Anyway, I don’t want to bore you with formalities and all that junk. I went to your house today. Well, your parents’ house. The one in Chestnut. Which I guess IS yours now… I wanted to give you my condolences in person. Thought you’d be there.
I met Liam, the contractor. Nice guy. Didn’t get to talk to him all that much, though. Would you believe I asked him for your number? He wouldn’t give it to me, though, not that I blame him. Wouldn’t be very professional, I guess. I’m glad you found someone cool to work on the house. Does this mean you’re planning on selling it? I’m sure you have your own place now, wherever you are, so I suppose you have no need for it, do ya?
Sorry, getting off-topic again. Writing this is harder than I thought it would be, and I don’t know that you’ll ever see it. But it wouldn’t sit right with me if I never got to tell you how sorry I am. For everything. Michelle and Booker were like family to me, and I can only imagine what you’re going through, hearing the news.
We set up a memorial by the crash site. It’s not much, just some old pictures and some flowers, but we made it as nice as we could. Maybe I’ll send you a picture of it sometime, but I don’t want to overstep. I heard the funeral is on hold for now, which makes sense.
Anyway, if you need any help, don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m here for you, always.
If you do come back, and by some miracle, you want to see me and catch up for old time’s sake, I’m just a phone call away.
Miss ya, Dawny.
Hope to hear from you soon.
The lump in my throat was about the size of Texas by the time I finished reading. That guilt I had spent so long trying to keep caged deep in the back of my mind spilled over all at once, and my whole body trembled from the force of it.
Directly above the new message, dated one year ago just as he said, was another message. It was just as long, filled with updates of the lives of people I had forced myself to forget about. Updates on his life. And there were dozens of messages before it, all in a similar fashion, dated all the way back to the night I left.
The early messages were desperate, pained, begging for a response. My final message to him had been a short goodbye--admittedly not my proudest moment--and it worried him. Then, there were a handful of messages from a few days later, explaining that he had come to my house and heard from my parents that I had left.
After a few months, the flood of messages asking me to answer had settled. He apologized for being pushy, or needy, and promised to keep me updated on the goings-on of Chestnut, just in case I ever did decide to return.
And that’s what he did. Every few months, he would send another update, telling me about who had gone off to college, who was getting engaged to who, who had moved out, who had moved in, and so on and so forth. Before I knew it, I was carefully reading each message like my life was ending, desperately trying to absorb years of the things I missed.
By the end, my cheeks were damp with tears, and my right hand was practically fused to the mouse, while my left was pressed over my mouth. I had missed so much. So much. And I knew I would, before I left. I knew I was going to miss out.
I didn’t know it was going to hurt this much.
The emotions I had long buried welled to the surface, and all logic left me. It didn’t matter that I left on bad terms. It didn’t matter that I had returned without telling anyone. It didn’t matter that I had changed my name, my presentation, my everything. It didn’t matter that I had lied to his face, literally hours before.
I had to respond.
I couldn’t let him wallow over me for another second.
My fingers rapidly got to work typing out a response.
Duncan,
Hi.
So, it’s been a long time. A really, really long time. Obviously, you know that. And I’m really sorry. I wish I could say I didn’t mean for this to happen, but admittedly, when I left, I really thought I was going to leave everything behind. Everything.
Even you.
I know I’m sorry isn’t going to cut it. I know I hurt you. I know I hurt everyone. Admittedly, it was not my most graceful exit. I could make a thousand excuses as to why I did what I did, but I don’t think that would be helpful. I don’t think that’s what either of us needs.
Thank you, by the way, for your condolences. I wasn’t on the best terms with my parents, but it didn’t make their passing sting any less. If I do find myself in town, though, I’ll stop by the memorial. I would like to see it, I think. Maybe even add something of my own. I don’t know.
I hope you’ll forgive me.
Seconds after I clicked send, my brain, which had made a home for itself in space, crashed back into my body. The reality of what my panic-riddled state had made me do sank in. But I had already pressed send, so there was no coming back from that one. My eyes flickered across the message, skimming for signs of my obvious mental breakdown, when I caught sight of my username.
To my absolute horror, it hadn’t changed in eight years. Of course, it hadn’t, because I hadn’t bothered to delete the account or update it to something less embarrassing. So, because the universe hated me, my message was timestamped as followed:
Nyaruto, 7:53 PM.
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