The Other Side of Lost

by Jessi Kirby

  Another comment appears before I can answer, this one from @wildchel326:

  @soulmagic Seriously? Mari comes from an authentic place every day, with every post. She chooses to share her life with us, so you need to lay off. Just because she mentions a product she likes and wears DOESN’T mean she’s trying to sell us on it. And what exactly is wrong with being fit and healthy? Go pour your hate elsewhere. Namaste.

  I stare at the words, written in defense of me and my sincerity, and it turns my stomach the slightest bit. It takes a moment, but I type what I hope sounds like a genuine response.

  @wildchel326 Thank you for being the positive energy that keeps me going. Amen, and namaste for beautiful vibes.

  I finish it off with the prayer hands then hit Reply.

  I’d like it to be true—that positive comments like hers are enough to insulate me from the negative ones, but it doesn’t work like that. Especially not when the negative comments have some truth to them that even I recognize.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Ian:

  Yeah, but can’t stay long

  That’s fine. Usual place?

  Sure

  When can you meet?

  5

  Okay. See you there.

  He doesn’t bother to answer, let alone wish me a happy birthday, even though I know he’s probably seen my posts. But we look like a happy couple on each of our feeds, which is beneficial to both of us, especially for companies looking to capture crossover accounts—and for a while now, that has been enough. At least that’s what I tell myself.

  #Combinedreach

  AT 5:45, Ian steps out onto the back patio of the vegan café we use as our favorite, looking put out. He looks even more annoyed when he sits down and I take the birthday gift I’d wrapped myself out of my purse.

  “Really?” he asks, eyeing it.

  I ignore the sting of his coldness. It wasn’t always like this. “Really,” I say softly. “It’s my birthday. So it can be your gift to me, and it covers all bases.”

  We’re both quiet for a moment, then he nods like that makes sense. “Happy birthday then,” he says. “Works for me.” He picks up his fork to dig into the plate of food I ordered that has long-since grown cold.

  I reach out a hand to stop him. “Wait.”

  He rolls his eyes and puts his fork down. “Jesus, Mari.”

  I flag down the passing bus girl. “Excuse me? Would you mind taking a few pictures for us?”

  “Of course!” she says with a wry smile. “Are they gonna end up on your feed?” The prospect seems to make her night.

  I smile back. “Maaayybee.”

  I hand her my phone, then put the wrapped gift in the middle, between our plates. Ian’s hand reaches for mine across the table, and I take it. We look at each other and smile like we’re enjoying dinner and each other’s company.

  “Aw, that’s so cute,” the bus girl says. “I’m gonna take a lot so I make sure to get you a good one. You guys smile, just like that.” She backs up another step, and I hope it’s enough to get the whole thing in the frame.

  “Open it,” Ian says in a voice that sounds like he genuinely wants me to. Like what’s in the box came straight from his heart.

  “Yeah!” the bus girl agrees. “I’ll get a few of that too!”

  I smile, like together, they’ve convinced me, then I tear the handmade paper I bought on the way over. She snaps away as I open the box and take out the necklace I knew would look perfect with the low-cut dress and push-up bra I’m wearing.

  “It’s so beautiful,” I say, dangling it in front of me and looking at Ian as lovingly as I can.

  “Here,” he says, standing. “Let me.”

  He takes the necklace from my hand and steps behind me, smiling in that relaxed way he does so expertly. I lift my hair and dip my chin, and smile in that diminutive way that I do so expertly.

  “THAT is adorable,” the bus girl says.

  And I know we have the shot. A perfect candid.

  Ian knows it too—I can tell by the way he starts fidgeting as soon as she stops taking pictures and hands my phone back.

  “That necklace is so pretty! And you guys are SO cute. Hope I got you some good ones.”

  “I’m sure you did,” I say. “Thank you so much! Want me to tag you, or credit you?”

  “Really? Of course! I’m Kayleigh Bee,” she says, and I search for her name. “It’s k-a-y-l-e-i-g-h-b, all lowercase.”

  I type it in. “Is this you?” I hold out my phone for her to check.

  “Yep. That’s me. I follow both of you guys, so this is kind of—sorry, fangirling just a little.”

  “Well, thanks again,” Ian says. I hope she can’t hear the edge of irritation in his voice.

  “Anytime, seriously.”

  The sound of glass breaking interrupts what is about to stretch out into an awkward moment. Kayleigh glances over her shoulder. “I uh . . . I better get that. See you guys next time?”

  “Hope so,” I say. “Thank you.”

  As soon as she turns around, Ian takes a breath and lets it out in a loud sigh. “We good? Cuz I gotta go.”

  I nod. “Yeah, sure. I’ll get it up tonight.”

  “Great,” he says. “Make sure you tag me.”

  “Of course.”

  “Happy birthday, Mari.”

  “Yeah.”

  He turns to go before I can say anything else.

  I gather my stuff and leave some cash on the table before anyone can notice.

  #Makeawish

  THE HOUSE IS dark when I get home, and I walk straight through to the backyard, not wanting to feel the emptiness of being inside alone. Outside, I set the mini cake, sparkler candles, and lighter on the table and turn on the pool lights. I don’t bother with the patio light. The soft aqua glow and the candles should give off enough light for this last shot.

  I sink into the patio chair, completely drained. People are going crazy over the shot of Ian putting my birthday necklace on me, oohing and aahing over how cute we are, and how sweet he is, and how beautiful the necklace is, and wanting to know where they can get it.

  It makes me want to throw my phone in the pool, but I put it down on the table instead and get the cake I bought on the way home out of its box. It’s too small for eighteen candles, so I settle on a triangle of three in the center of the cake and then grab my phone and try a few different angles that will include me blowing them out with the pool as the background. This one’s going to be hard, because it can’t look like a selfie. That would be mortifying.

  But it so obviously is with every angle I try. I dig the mini tripod and remote out of my purse and get the frame set up so that my cake and I are backlit by the pool, both of my hands seemingly free. I sit there for a moment, staring at myself on the phone screen. I look as worn on the outside as I feel on the inside. My hair falls in soft waves over my shoulders, and the makeup I put on before dinner is still perfectly intact. But the effect of them can’t hide the flat look in my eyes, or the hint of dark circles beneath them—or my cheeks, which look too hollow in this light. None of it can hide the emptiness I feel in this moment.

  I light the candles. Click my remote as I blow them out. I do this again and again, as many times as it takes to get the shot right.

  I don’t bother to make a wish.

  Something True

  UP IN MY ROOM, I watch my phone screen, my pulse ticking off the likes as they roll in. I try to feel the little lift they used to send through me, but tonight it’s long gone. Now I just watch with anxious expectation. There’s a pause, a break in the flow, and I feel the familiar tug of self-doubt. The heaviness of it starts to sink me lower than I already feel. I wait a moment. Wonder if I chose the right shots, if I posted too many. If I should just take them all down. I hold my breath, at the edge of tears, which I know is ridiculous, but I can’t help it. After what feels like forever, I see the little notification heart, and then another, and I breathe again. There are comments comin
g in too, and I scroll through the ones on my birthday wish photo. Sprinkled in with the celebratory emojis are a few actual comments:

  HBD Beautiful!

  My birthday wish is to be YOU.

  BIRTHDAY GOALS

  Hope all your wishes come true, forever and always.

  OMG LUV U SOOOO MUCH!!!!!!

  You are amazing and beautiful and OMG, if we ever met, I know we’d be INSTANT BFFS.

  Make a wish! Perfect end to a perfect birthday!

  They’re all so sweet, and I know I should go through and make sure to like each comment so they know I’ve seen and read them, but something in me rebels at the thought. I lie back on my pillows, close my eyes, and think about these strangers—my followers—and how they think of me, and feel like they know me because of what I show them. They have no idea that I am sitting here by myself in my room on my birthday, and that it is the loneliest thing I’ve ever felt.

  My phone pings with an unfamiliar notification, and I tap it without thinking. Immediately, my stomach drops, and I wish I could undo it.

  Erin Young tagged you in a post with Bri Young!

  I stare at their names in shock. I’ve spent the entire day doing everything I can to not think about Bri.

  And now she’s right in front of me.

  I stare at the notification about my aunt’s post until the letters blur and float in front of me, then I do something I haven’t done in forever. Not even in the two months since Bri died.

  I click over to her Facebook page.

  The cover photo takes my breath away even though I’ve seen it before.

  Bri stands atop a granite ridge surrounded by blue sky. Her eyes are closed, and her face is turned upward toward the sun. She reaches her arms up, open and wide as her hair swirls around her in the wind, long strands blowing over her smiling face. It’s the one my aunt chose for the memorial program, and I can see why. Whoever took it somehow captured her whole spirit in one shot.

  Directly beneath it is my aunt’s post. It’s the picture of us from our thirteenth birthday. My throat tightens when I look at the image. Bri and I stand side by side, arms intertwined, grinning and holding our matching dreamcatcher keychains proudly in front of us.

  My aunt’s caption reads: Happy Birthday, our twin stars. Keep shining your beautiful lights for this world to see.

  The words land in the center of my chest. I want to send them away, to close the page and act like I never saw it. But below Aunt Erin’s post are more words, more birthday wishes for Bri, and I can’t help but read those too.

  Happy 18th birthday, my friend. I think of you every day. I feel you in the wind and see you in all things beautiful. Love and miss you every day.

  Thinking of you today and your adventurous, free-spirited, humble, and kindhearted way. I promise you I will try my best to live life to the fullest, just as you did, to honor you and our memories. Love you always. Happy birthday, Bri.

  So many tears today. I miss you and your sweet smile, your beautiful voice, and your powerful spirit.

  You had a wild heart and a gypsy soul, and I know you’re out there somewhere, exploring the great beyond and shining your light down on all of us. Happy birthday, beautiful angel.

  They continue on like this, as far as I can scroll down, these heartbreaking birthday wishes for my cousin, from people I know and don’t. Each one strikes a chord somewhere deep in my chest, and my own tears begin to fall as I read them.

  Tonight, I don’t have the strength to fight it.

  I think of us, and how we used to be. Of that last birthday we celebrated together—our thirteenth—when the possibilities for everything we could be were bright and endless. And together, we were invincible. We could do whatever we wanted, and the two of us together were enough. That’s how she made it feel.

  I think now, of the wish I made on that birthday—that it would always be like that with us.

  It was so long ago. Before I screwed everything up.

  Before my dad left, and my mom got so wrapped up in making a new life for herself that she forgot I was still trying to figure out how to live mine. So I looked elsewhere for help, and I found it online. First, it was a girl on Instagram who posted pretty pictures and inspirational thoughts, and I clung to them and the escape they offered me. And then I started to find more accounts like hers, of all these girls, living out these perfect, inspiring lives that I wanted so much. They were beautiful, and happy. They spent their days eating healthy, and doing yoga, and going to the beach with their friends.

  So I watched these strangers’ lives from a distance, and it didn’t take long for my envy to turn into emulation. I studied their poses and posts, memorized quotes and hashtags, read articles on how to build a following. I went through my own account and deleted the photos with the fewest likes, and the ones that didn’t fit in with the overall image I wanted to create—that of a blissful, balanced life. A life that was better than the one I was actually living. This image couldn’t include shots of me in my Halloween costume as a ten-year-old—or filthy and sunburnt after a day of adventures on my thirteenth birthday with my cousin. I felt guilty about taking that one down, but I did it anyway. And when Bri noticed and asked me about it, I lied and told her how sad I was that those posts had somehow gotten lost. She sent me the pictures again, but I never put them back up.

  Instead, I composed pictures I thought more people would like. Other people, who didn’t actually know me. And when I posted my first bikini shot, it worked. Almost overnight, strangers started liking my posts, and commenting, and following me. Bri had messaged me asking what was going on, and if everything was okay, like she could see right through me—which I hated. That first picture, and the response it had gotten, had made me feel good when nothing else did. And I didn’t want her to take that away from me.

  So I posted more like the bikini picture, and every single one widened the distance between us. I didn’t want to hear her question me, or be worried, or call me out on something false I said or showed. She knew the real me, and that was not the one I wanted everyone else to know. So I’d stopped calling her. Made excuses not to visit. It’s hard to face someone who can see the real you, so I didn’t. I let her go. And eventually, she did the same with me.

  A lump rises in my throat, and Bri’s Facebook page goes blurry through my tears, and all I want is for her to be here right now. To celebrate our birthday together. To talk to her. To pour out the loneliness of my days.

  And to confess the meaninglessness of the life I’ve created for myself.

  Maybe that’s what makes me get up from my bed and sit down at my desk, in front of my laptop and hit record.

  My image comes up on the screen, and I sit there in my pajamas, face streaked with mascara, eyes puffy and red. And for once, I don’t care. I stare at the unblinking eye of the lens, not knowing what to say. And then I picture Bri on the other side, listening. I think of us, and of the summer of thirteen. The last time I saw her.

  “It’s our birthday today,” I say. “And there’s something I need to tell you.” I pause. Stare at the lens again. And finally, for the first time in forever, I say something true.

  The Life I Created

  BEFORE I EVEN open my eyes, I have a bad feeling. In my mind, I can hear my tear-choked voice, and see my face on the computer screen, and I will it to have somehow been a nightmare, or something that I only imagined doing, then thought better of. But even as I reach for my phone, I know I’m wrong. I stare with sleep-heavy eyes at the thumbnail image of my teary face. And then the number beneath it. The one that has happened, literally, overnight.

  784,062 views

  A record for me.

  I think I might throw up.

  My god.

  I hit the play button, and when I hear the tremor in my voice, I feel like I can’t breathe.

  I watch myself look right into the camera and decide to bare my soul to my cousin. I tell her it’s our birthday, and then I let loose the flood of everyth
ing I’d been holding back, every toxic, painful thought.

  I cringe at my words and the pain in my voice when I speak them, but it had been a relief to say these things out loud—that my life feels empty and meaningless. That I want to quit it all. The pictures, the videos, the constant worrying about followers and likes and numbers. The fakeness of all the paid posts, and the loneliness of spending every moment making my life look like it’s perfect and like I have it all when really I am miserable.

  I say them out loud, all these things that have made me so hollow inside.

  I tell her how I’ve completely lost myself to them. How I have given my days to creating a fake life to convince other people of what? That I’m worthy? Admirable? Enough?

  I tell her that, on our eighteenth birthday, I am none of those things, and that I have no idea who I am or what’s even real anymore.

  And then I tell her how I wish I could go back to when we were thirteen, and I did know—because of her. Because she was always so sure of who we were, and what our lives would be.

  I bring up how at the memorial, my aunt talked about the way Bri had lived the seventeenth year of her life like she somehow knew it would be her last. And how as she spoke, a slideshow played behind her—of Bri’s last year. She’d spent most of it backpacking her way across Europe after graduating early. There were shots of her riding a moped through the Italian countryside, standing on the top of a mountain in Switzerland, living with a group of hippies on a beach in Tenerife, then coming home only to hitchhike her way up to Canada, where she danced in ice caves and found frozen waterfalls nestled in snowy mountains.

  I talk about how after that had come pictures of Bri training to hike the John Muir Trail for her eighteenth birthday. Our eighteenth birthday. I’d forgotten all about that plan of ours, but she hadn’t. She hadn’t forgotten about any of the plans we’d made lying on the trampoline in her meadow that last summer. Plans for all these things we were going to do together someday.