The silence in the house lasted exactly two and a half days. I was committed to literary detox, re-reading novels and avoiding any forms of the real world risk.
On the third afternoon, Kenya's voice cut through the stillness, shattering my self pity. She had returned earlier today, from her shift at the small downtown non-profit restaurant where she volunteered.
"s! You smell like old paperbacks,"she announced, while walking into my room and pulling the curtains open, letting the room flooded with painful sunlight.
"I am detoxing from reality,"I mumbled, shielding my eyes. "It's part of my healing process ".
"your healing process is really turning you into a beautiful, highly articulate mushroom,"
Kenya retorted, grabbing my phone from my hand. "You are getting a few minutes of human interaction, that is not a fictional hero. Now put on real pants and meet me in the kitchen."
"Why?Are we going out?" I asked, bracing myself for a confrontation.
"No. We are going to the backyard," she said. "Mom hired Elias to build that new potting bench this week, and he is out there now. I told him every single detail about the last three breakups and why you are currently in self-imposed isolation."
My heart stuttered, I had forgotten how deep the loyalty ran between those two. Elias, was Kenya's oldest confidant. He was the neighbor and childhood friend who grew up coming over for every holiday. Kenya had told him my most recent humiliation.
"you told Elias? Why would you do that?" I whispered, feeling exposed.
Kenya gave me a look that was clearly half sympathy. "Because I know how Elias talks. He doesn't offer pity, he offers solutions in his own way. He needs to see through your pain, like it's a structural problem, not a tragedy. Now go out there, I told him you were coming for a public consultation on his carpentry project. Stop hiding, just go S."
A few minutes later, I was sitting grudgingly on the edge of the patio. Elias was meticulously sanding the new potting bench, his movements were precise.
He looked up when I approached, his hands resting on the half built structure. "okay, the consultant arrives," he said, his expression was easy.
"Welcome to the construction site, S. I see the quarantine has been temporarily lifted."
"I'm not here out of my willing, but under duress of mandatory friendship," I said to him, crossing my fingers arms. "Well, I also heard you were brought in to fix the structural integrity of Auntie's yard."
He put the sandpaper down and turned to face me fully. "The job is actually the lesson, S. Since you are here I will need to know, if this bench holds the weight of a heavy pot, should the support beam be visible or concealed?"
I looked at the wood. It was an honest question, needing an honest answer.
"Visible," I said instantly. "Concealed structure makes it not trustworthy, suggesting fragility. If it's visible, if signals that the structure is solid and reliable. It's about the trust, not esthetics." Elias smiled knowingly. "that's fascinating. You just applied literary theory, trust and signaling to a simple piece of carpentry. Why do you always make use of fiction to explain reality?"
I bristle. "Because… reality sucks, it is messy and unreliable. My life is proof. Fiction has rules:The good men win, bad men get punished. In my reality, I get hurt, and the bad men move on to the next girl."
Elias leaned back against the bench. "that's where you have got it all wrong, S. Fiction doesn't have rules. The author sets the rules, and you are the author of your own life. You are just still writing in the wrong genre S."
"what genre is that Elias?" I challenged.
"The tragedy of the misunderstood heroine," he stated plainly. "your genre says; I keep falling for men who don't love me because I am fundamentally flawed. That's the plot you have assigned yourself."
Elias let the pain hang in the air, respecting it.
"The fact is, men hurt you. The fiction is that it's your fault. Come on S, you are an English student, you know about agency. That's the power of choice. When you blame yourself, you give away your agency to the men who hurt you. In your genre, failure belongs to the character who chose to lie, not the character who chose to trust."
He didn't hug me or pity me. He just simply offered a tool for rebuilding.
"Simone, pain is a signal and not a conclusion. It tells you that the person you gave your trust to was structurally unsound. Your next move is to build a new, stronger foundation that only accepts visible support beams".
I finally looked up, finding his dark, honest eyes. "So, I should change the plot?"
"You are to change the genre S," Elias affirmed. "You are in the messy, exciting genre of self discovery. The pain is just the first chapter. What happens next is entirely up to the author and that's you Simone."