Halfway Point

For Ella, my steady friend (and very reluctant twin)

6/28/23: The thought did cross my mind as I stepped into my overalls. It’s happened before, where I rounded a corner to find Ella in an outfit that looked a lot like the one I had just checked in the mirror. She laughed. I told her we couldn’t match. And then we argued about who should change, each protecting the right to our own individuality complex. 

It was no surprise then that once again, without any instruction, we showed up dressed like twin-record sleeves to some 70’s song. We were amused, a little embarrassed. The lady behind the counter thought that it was cute; adorable was the word she used. 

A few nights before, we had spent three hours on the phone. But some things need to be said face-to-face so you know you’re seeing eye-to-eye. A halfway point was found, conveniently marked by a coffee shop. It wasn’t a question: of course we’d rob our sleep tank, wake up early, and fill up at the gas station instead. Anything to make this happen. 

We sat on stools beside a window, easing into the cadence that carries each conversation of ours. Ella told me more about her upcoming move to Nashville— noting her excitement for what lay ahead,  and the fears of leaving behind what’s familiar and dear. She told me that she’s sick of people telling her “that’s okay, too,” as if her ambitions are secondary to their expectations. She told me that getting out of bed can be hard. That she loves the next door Border Collie that mounts four flights of stairs to sit beside her on the porch each morning. 

I told her about my relationship— how it’s thrilling and terrifying all at once. That taking hold of things means that it could be taken away, too. That I think I’m in love, but she’s not allowed to tell anyone. That I relate to Courtney Marie Andrews’ “Change My Mind.” That I like taking walks in the evening and waving to people I pass. 

 I held her hand when tears welled in her eyes. She laughed at me when I got smiley talking about a boy. We both choked up when we realized that our lives weren’t matching up like they used to— that it might take effort to say, “I understand.” We talked for four and a half hours before she took a left onto 522 and I took a right. 

I don’t like distance, but I don’t fear it. We’re good at finding the points that mark halfway and doing what it takes to be there. Showing up, only to find that we’re dressed the same.

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6/1/25: Two years later and what I wrote makes me laugh; the kind of laugh that only someone who’s cried about it long enough can earn. So much has changed. For one, I had to throw away my trusty pair of overalls that decided to split in the seam, too grass-stained and thread-bare to spare them. Ella had to sew a criss-cross patch into the knees of her pair to keep them going. Hanging on by threads. It was all downhill from there. 

So downhill, I ended up moving to Nashville. Ella and I sit outside of my sister’s house, where I’ve unpacked some of my things into the guest room, leaving the rest in the trunk of my car. Not even two sips into my coffee and I start to cry, confessing that I’m afraid she won’t like who I am. I’ve changed but I’m still learning how. Being with friends, I tell her, ones that know a past you, is like letting someone see you before you’ve gotten to look into the mirror. That’s when Ella starts to cry too: same fears. We’re both hoping to recognize or be recognized, even in this light. 

Then we laugh. That bitter, deserved laugh, because here we are again: the same situation, sharing a city, both in-between jobs or houses, crying over not knowing ourselves or the possibility of not being liked by the other. We don’t even have to work to meet each other halfway, not when our lives bear uncanny resemblance. Not when we live so close.