Backstory: I was laid off last September, and my company called after my semester at school wanting me to come back. I’m only back for the summer, unless I can work part-time during school. I was asked to think about saying something at our company-wide meeting this morning about what I’ve been up to since leaving and coming back, and this is what I considered saying, if only to watch everyone’s reaction. It is dedicated to anyone who’s ever been laid off.
After spending three years of my life in a long-term, committed relationship with [the company], you told me you would like to see other people. It turned out this meant “instead of me”, not “in addition to me”. I was blind-sided, with no clue that we were in trouble, but I packed my belongings and moved out. I played the field, sought comfort in the arms of other companies, even flirted innocently at interviews, but it was never the same. I came to terms with it, healed, and even moved on with my life, content with who I was and what I had to offer someone should I be given the opportunity again.
Then it came: the drunken phone call, the idea of getting back together. We had some good times, right? said the voice on the other end of the line. We were great together, it could be like that again. No, it couldn’t. It could never be the same because I’m not the same person I was even those short months ago. Still, I admit, I was intrigued. I guess it’s true that you never completely heal from that kind of rejection; that part of you will always want what was taken away, if only because you needed to know that you were valuable, that you mattered to someone, somewhere. Enough, at least, that your phone is ringing out of the blue, and the voice on the other end sounds a little sorry, even sad at the way things turned out.
But I’m a different person now. I see now that your commitment to me was only an illusion, that the minute someone better came along, I would be tossed to the curb like so much garbage, and would have to start the healing process all over again. Not this time. Yes, I’ll come over. Yes, you can tell me about all the other people that walked these halls, and how they didn’t mean as much to you as I did, but I know how fickle you are, how quickly your affections wane. This time, though, I’m in control. I will determine my own destiny and plot my own exit, for out of the blue, while you snore away beside me, I will kiss your cheek, slip from beneath your warm covers, dress myself, and the last thing that will be heard from me is the distant click of a latch as I pull the door closed behind me. I’ll put on my shoes in your driveway, and spend the long walk home letting all my friends know that I’m changing my cellphone number.