Words by: Joy Fan
Art by: Maxine Liang

Cutting yourself loose from the people holding you down.

A peaceful walk home. Wind rustles through branches and stirs the stray leaves on the road. My eyes, thoughts and feet drift as I stroll through the streets — phone in hand, earbuds plugged in. I float high above tiled suburban roofs, above parked SUVs, above faint wisps of stovetop dinners wafting up to me. Both fluffy clouds and homeward-bound birds drift past me in the twilight sky.

“Helloooooo — are you even listening to me???” 

And it all comes crashing down.

The tinny voice blasting through my earbuds cuts through my consciousness, slamming my feet right back down onto the pavement with a thud.

Yes, my apologies. 

I am listening, to your unending rants about how the world has wronged you. 

I am listening, to the infinite complaints about your aches and pains and malaises, both metaphorical and literal. 

I am listening, even though 20 minutes have passed and you have not asked me a single question. 

For your information (not that you asked), I’ve been having an awful time. Questioning my life choices, feeling a little lost, untethered, isolated. Missing old friends and old company. 

My heart lit up when I saw your name on my phone  — thudded like the tail of an old family dog, but it just as quickly dropped when you did nothing other than talk about yourself for the last 20, now 22 minutes.

It continues. Each complaint like a pebble piling onto my already heavy load. I lug it behind me, even as you add more. I’ve carried this for — how long now? Decades? Oh, it is so heavy. My shoulders ache and my neck twinges; ever-flowing streams of lactic acid seep through the crevices and degrade my soul. 

But you know what? I’ve had enough. This is not my burden to carry and it never was, even though you made me feel that way. I know I should be a good person and be there for you. I should listen to your worries and complaints and nuisances, nod my head in sympathy, offer a kind supportive word 

but 

I actually 

don’t 

owe you 

anything.  

My finger lifts, hovers, pauses —  then decidedly drops onto the end call button. The high-pitched, tinny voice is instantly exchanged for a flat dial tone and I swear, I’ve never heard a sweeter sound. 

With peace restored, I continue my amble home —  hands in my pockets, head in the clouds. Not a single thing dragging me down.