Denial: Rhea

“I can’t believe you’re saying no to pizza,” I say. “That’s like Ross saying no to dinosaurs.”
“For fuck’s sake, Kriti. I’m fed up of you and your stupid sitcom metaphors,” she replies. It has been like this for almost a week now. She doesn’t eat much, she doesn’t talk much; she just stares out of her window into nothing.
“You know how much it sucks to see your best friend live like a dead body when all you can do is passively watch her do that.”
“You cannot live like a dead body, for starters,” she corrects. “It’s oxymoronic.”
“Thank you for starting a conversation, for starters. I knew this would work, you little Grammar Nazi bitch.” She smiles. ‘Finally,’ I think. Finally she has given me a smile. I had to work my ass off this entire week to earn her smile— something I used to compare to an advertising leaflet. You could see it everywhere, all the time.
“I think I should get ready. In case he pays a surprise visit in the evening. You never know,” she says, her face showing off a blush.
“Rhea,” I say, letting out a sigh, “please stop this. You know he won’t come. He can’t come.”
“What if all this is a big lie? What if he’s just planning to give me the biggest birthday surprise ever?” Her eyes shimmer with hope.
“Your boyfriend is in Princeton, New Jersey, United States, right now. You went to the airport to see him off just seven days before. He broke off with you, a day prior to that, coz he thinks long distance relationships never work. Do you still think it’s some goddamn surprise?” I ask, furious. She looks down, her eyes forlorn. “Your ex-boyfriend, I mean,” I correct myself, and straightaway regret doing it.
“You never know,” she says under her breath, and I want to kill her. Why can’t she see the truth? I’m not expecting her to get over him within a week, but why is she still hoping for him to come back?  Why isn’t she accepting the truth?
“Stop living in denial, Rhea. Wake up. See the truth. Please don’t mess things up even more,” I tell her, standing up to leave. She holds my hand, but doesn’t look at me. Her eyes are moist, and she’s holding her tears back. I can’t see her like this. I swear I would’ve killed her ex if I could, for doing this to her.
“He can’t be gone. Not forever. He has to come back. I’ve so many dreams, so many plans. We had planned our future together. This can’t be it, there has to be more.”
And in that moment, I hug her and cry. Not because she needs it, but because I feel defeated. I can’t make my friend see the truth, help her accept what has happened. Love is tragic, after all. Like a sweet poison. It breaks you, and doesn’t even let you realize it.