She was a really quiet girl, meek, actually, and she always came across a little as if she couldn’t quite believe people had enough faith in her to do her job.
She did, and well, dilligent, even.
I’ve never met anyone whose self esteem had taken such a hammering. She may not have seen it in herself but she was one of the most courageous people I’ve known. You have to be to beat down anorexia. It’s part of her her history, and one she was encouraged to tell – as others often do, in church, to wow the crowds at the goodness of God. So she delivered, when asked to, a testimony of how her faith had made her well, and while she wasn’t exactly articulate, the pictures more than made up for the faltering words even though they were terrifying, so close to death, but thankfully, so long ago.
She worked a few cubicles away from me, and she worked in accounts. Ridiculous hours, fielding the disgruntled calls from creditors, calling in debts from the debtors.
She always said she was fine if she was asked, she turned down offers of help… not that I’d be any good at helping out with accounts… but at least I’d have been company.
She came to my house for tea, I thought she may have become my friend.
But then… she broke.
She walked into the boss’ office and quit, then walked out of the building, the church and out of my life, turning her back even on her closest friends, obviously wounded and protecting herself from further harm by withdrawing completely.
Church is supposed to be a place of solace.
It wasn’t for her.
I send the occasional text, assuming, perhaps wrongly, that her number is the same, that maybe my messages don’t just go out into the ether, maybe one day she’ll reply.
I ask after her in circles that go beyond our former workplace, just in case someone’s seen her, heard from her. They rarely have.
I’ve since left that workplace, that church too. I’d like for her to know. I’d still like to be her friend.
I wonder where she is.
I wonder if she’s ok.