Tallulah set yet another coffee cup on the table, adding to the pile that had gathered steadily over the past few weeks…

 Mold and yellow chunks of cream curdled in the half emptied containers that she never seemed to finish- despite ordering the largest size. Every. Single. Morning. 



 A tart velvety stench clung to the back of any anyone’s throat passing the kitchen but don’t get me started on the kitchen which had by all means become its own biosphere. The singular sensible question on anyone’s mind would be “well, why didn’t you just clean the kitchen since you lived there too” and to that I answer- because none of the mess was mine. Not one speck, as I ate at work or in my room. 

The dishes, now furry in their neglect, teemed with a carpet of flies and various other skittering nasties. The trash was overflowing with empty cans of cat food and her Trader Joe’s organic Swiss cheese inside the fridge was now green and prickly..

much like the grass we first met on.

 We’d agreed to move in together amidst a flurry of daisies, fluffy spring clouds, and oat milk lattes- who could be so similar and understand one other on a level like ours? Our friend groups, interests, and styles were embedded in each other. We were sisters, one and the same. Before I’d known it, we held matching keys to a new two-bed room apartment and _already_ had plans to renew our lease.



 Tallulah, all of 5’2, now slammed the front door behind her with all the force she could muster, tramping away in those _ridiculous_ mahogany leather boots that she thought made her look so edgy. She’d chopped her hair off considerably and darkend her makeup in the last couple months, no doubt emulating the poor new soul she’d latched onto, some other girl who was unaware to her slow infection. I heard she gotten dumped? Maybe school was hard? It was strange that I didn’t know my roomate anymore, my best friend, who was now an entirely different person from when we’d first met.



 I tore my eyes away from trying to bore a hole through the door glaring after her and contemplated where it all went wrong. Flashbacks crash-slam through my brain until I remember! It was right around the time she started chopping her hair in the bathroom sink, successfully clogging it. 

One night I’d come home plastered drunk and fell asleep with the faucet running causing the sink to overflow and duly flood her bedroom. I’d obviously offered to pay for her damaged belongings but I also suggested that perhaps she not cut her hair in the sink anymore. She’d had a tantrum about “not knowing about her hair type” and “just sticking with my braids”…

Over the next couple of weeks, her mom visited the apartment frequently- never staying long and always leaving in a rush after a muffled argument from behind Tallulah’s closed door.

 Our relationship eroded faster than a sand castle at shores edge. By Christmas we had stopped speaking to each other entirely and resorted to nasty little notes left in places each of us would see. Petty battles ensued over things like who would control the thermostat and how loud each others speaker was. Childish things. 

Nowadays we barely saw each other, avoiding each other like the plague, we conveniently managed to exist in two separate rooms at all times.

We’d come back from winter holiday just a few weeks ago and today was the first time I’d seen her, I mean really seen her in a long time. Her hair had gotten so short I could see the moles on her scalp, but I refused to reach out, refused to reconcile a situation she’d blown out of proportion despite encouragement from our mutuals to make amends. She was just as capable. Looking back I wished I’d extended the white flag but how was I supposed to know that everything would happen the way it did.. I was young, my ego was large and my pride- wounded.

 Some time before finals, after a particularly grueling day of work I’d come home to an empty apartment. Well, half emptied. Her possessions had been removed along with any traces of her as though she was never there. Just as I preferred. But I didn’t have any time, no time at all, to revel in pettiness or smug elation. Fear had set in. How would I pay rent. Where had she gone. Where would I go? Was this all part of some elaborate scheme to sabotage me? Should I sue her? My heart was sinking further into the pit my stomach had become when I opened my bedroom door to find the half haphazardly folded note lying across my bed. As though she was rushing to get out of my room or couldn’t be bothered to spend more time than necessary on the note. Inside, the note read:

Half of the remaining rent is paid.

Tallulah has stage 4 brain cancer and will be spending the rest of the year in intensive care.

Take care.

 Tallulah died later that spring and I never saw her family again.