Page 88 of Leaving the Station

I wanted to rip the small shoot out of the pot and tear it to shreds. It was a frightening impulse, one that came from somewhere primal and small.

Instead of hurting the plant, I screamed until it felt like my already-raw throat was being ripped to shreds.

The most depressing part—and there were many, many depressing parts—was that all of this could’ve been solved if I’d stuck with the Tees.

There were two versions of me floating in the ether, two Zoes who would never meet. One of us stayed friends with the Tees. That Zoe spent their whole first semester exploring their gender and sexuality. That Zoe wouldn’t have alienated Autumn when she was just trying to be nice.

But I was the Zoe who chose to date Alden.

I paced the greenhouse for hours, wondering why I’d done this to myself.

Randall had taught me that most of the plants in the greenhouse had evolved so that they produce both pollen, which is like plant sperm, and eggs. He had said it as an aside, as an interesting fact to share with visitors if they inquired about plant reproduction.

But all I could think was that the plants were lucky. They didn’t have the human defect of needing another organism for the survival of their species.

I went back to my dorm and searched for train schedules. I found this route, which would leave from the city a day and a half later. I bought a coach seat with the money I had made from the greenhouse.

After that, it didn’t take long to pack my things.

My whole life fit into a backpack and a large suitcase. I didn’t have posters up in my dorm, or mementos of a first semester spent with people I’d been learning to love.

I had textbooks I’d rarely opened, clothes I hated, and bedding that I wanted to burn.

It all fit without protest.

The room was empty, but I still had thirty-six hours of waiting, and only one real thing left to do.

I pulled a piece of paper out of one of my many empty notebooks and grabbed a pen that was still full of ink from my unused pencil case.

On the paper, I wrote a note to Alden. It was a cowardly thing to do, to not text or call, but just then, a coward was the only thing I had it in me to be.

My heart beat frantically as I scratched the letter onto the page.

Dear Alden,

Maybe you don’t know this, or maybe you’ve been kind enough not to mention it, but you’re my only friend here. Thank you for showing me parts of campus I never would’ve seen without you. Thank you for bringing me to the clock tower and the library and the bowling alley.

Do you know what I saw in you that first day, in the Straight? I saw myself. Or who I wanted to be.

You were a window into a life I never knew was possible. I hope I was good for you too, even when I was shitty.

Which is what’s making it about a thousand times harder to tell you that I’m a lesbian.

Or maybe I’m not a lesbian exactly, but that’s the best word I have for it right now.

I really, really like you, Alden. You’re smart and funny and weird, and you’re almost scarily good at card games. But as desperately as I wish I could, I can’t want you the way you want me.

And for that I’m so, so sorry.

This is the ultimate “It’s not you, it’s me.” It’s always been me.

I hope one day we can be friends, which is a cliché thing to say but I’m pretty sure I mean it.

I’ve included the copy of your key—please throw it away; I don’t want you to get expelled.

A little bit yours,

Zoe