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The beads wrapped around her fingers like tentacles. She could imagine them tightening, sucking at her skin, pulling her down. It wasn’t hard to imagine. The feeling was already in her stomach. Like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, and strong winds were blowing, and the moment she looked away she would topple. And then Imogen would be no more.
    Who was Imogen anyway? she thought. Who was she?
    All she knew was Immy. All she knew was the reflection of a reflection, the version of her that was in his eyes. I love you Immy. She knew Immy. She had thought Imogen was gone. It was a quiet death, no funeral. That was wrong. Imogen never died.
    It was Immy who was temporary. A moment. A mortal. A ghost. Immy was the light off a mirror. A distorted image, a picture taken too fast for the imperfections to be caught.
    She loved Immy. He loved Immy. She loved Immy because he loved her. It was weird how that worked. She had never thought of love in that way, even when they were together. It was when things shifted, when he looked at her and she saw hatred in his eyes, disgust—that’s when she knew it was a mirror, because in that moment she hated herself too, she felt raw and stripped down and sharp and real. She felt like Imogen. Because Immy would never be looked at with disgust. Immy was too soft for hate.
    Immy would say “I love you” like it was a secret so that he knew it had meaning.
    He said “I don’t love you anymore” like a secret because he was ashamed.
    Imogen remembered walking to the top of the world. It wasn’t even the top of the mountain. It was on the far side, where they could no longer see houses or people. That was enough. The top of the world wasn’t a place. It was a feeling. A pin on his phone’s map. They really were on the top of the world there. It was Immy and him against the world.
    But that was wrong. Imogen knew that now. You could not stand against the world with someone. No one was invincible. Two people were even weaker than one. Two people were temporary.
    Imogen relaxed her hold on the necklace. It was the one she wore the first time they met. It was before she knew a lot of people. She had the energy of someone calling anxiety the name of excitement. They didn’t talk long, but it was enough.
    She thought of the breakups she’d read about in books. They would delete the old pictures, burn the memories, but that didn’t seem right to her. She didn’t want to burn Immy. She wanted Immy to be a picture of a friend she hadn’t seen in years on the mantle. The Christmas cards from someone she knew back in high school. Someone lost to time. Memories were valuable. They were not for burning.
    She put the necklace back in her jewelry box. She saw the lights he’d gotten for her last Christmas, the lotion for her birthday. She saw the small marble cat statue he gave her when he took a road trip to Washington. She could have sworn Immy was in the room with her, in the light falling through the windows. But that’s the thing—Immy was with her, but she no longer was her.
    She was Imogen. She knew who she was. She was strong and singular and not against the world, but with it. She was whole. She was Imogen. She was Imogen.
    And now she could live, not as a duet, but a single voice, a single melody. She was not on a cliff. She was in a forest. Light filtering through the leaves. Dappled. The air smelled of dirt.
    This is what it meant to breathe. This is what it meant to exhale.
    This is what it meant to move on.

Description

The beads wrapped around her fingers like tentacles. She could imagine them tightening, sucking at her skin, pulling her down. It wasn’t hard to imagine. The feeling was already in her stomach. Like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, and strong winds were blowing, and the moment she looked away she would topple. And then Imogen would be no more.
    Who was Imogen anyway? she thought. Who was she?
    All she knew was Immy. All she knew was the reflection of a reflection, the version of her that was in his eyes. I love you Immy. She knew Immy. She had thought Imogen was gone. It was a quiet death, no funeral. That was wrong. Imogen never died.
    It was Immy who was temporary. A moment. A mortal. A ghost. Immy was the light off a mirror. A distorted image, a picture taken too fast for the imperfections to be caught.
    She loved Immy. He loved Immy. She loved Immy because he loved her. It was weird how that worked. She had never thought of love in that way, even when they were together. It was when things shifted, when he looked at her and she saw hatred in his eyes, disgust—that’s when she knew it was a mirror, because in that moment she hated herself too, she felt raw and stripped down and sharp and real. She felt like Imogen. Because Immy would never be looked at with disgust. Immy was too soft for hate.
    Immy would say “I love you” like it was a secret so that he knew it had meaning.
    He said “I don’t love you anymore” like a secret because he was ashamed.
    Imogen remembered walking to the top of the world. It wasn’t even the top of the mountain. It was on the far side, where they could no longer see houses or people. That was enough. The top of the world wasn’t a place. It was a feeling. A pin on his phone’s map. They really were on the top of the world there. It was Immy and him against the world.
    But that was wrong. Imogen knew that now. You could not stand against the world with someone. No one was invincible. Two people were even weaker than one. Two people were temporary.
    Imogen relaxed her hold on the necklace. It was the one she wore the first time they met. It was before she knew a lot of people. She had the energy of someone calling anxiety the name of excitement. They didn’t talk long, but it was enough.
    She thought of the breakups she’d read about in books. They would delete the old pictures, burn the memories, but that didn’t seem right to her. She didn’t want to burn Immy. She wanted Immy to be a picture of a friend she hadn’t seen in years on the mantle. The Christmas cards from someone she knew back in high school. Someone lost to time. Memories were valuable. They were not for burning.
    She put the necklace back in her jewelry box. She saw the lights he’d gotten for her last Christmas, the lotion for her birthday. She saw the small marble cat statue he gave her when he took a road trip to Washington. She could have sworn Immy was in the room with her, in the light falling through the windows. But that’s the thing—Immy was with her, but she no longer was her.
    She was Imogen. She knew who she was. She was strong and singular and not against the world, but with it. She was whole. She was Imogen. She was Imogen.
    And now she could live, not as a duet, but a single voice, a single melody. She was not on a cliff. She was in a forest. Light filtering through the leaves. Dappled. The air smelled of dirt.
    This is what it meant to breathe. This is what it meant to exhale.
    This is what it meant to move on.