For seventeen years Stefan had been posting art based on my life, tattooing himself with my presence, and I not only didn’t notice, but I missed out on us finally seeing each other in the flesh for the first time in nearly a decade.
He’d relapsed repeatedly, but this time…
Regardless of blame, of responsibility, of the dark gravity of addiction… My distance wounded the man I’ve wanted more than anything, and he died thinking I didn’t care.
I never loved anyone else with such abandon, felt such contentment and peace radiate from their embrace, or craved them like a goddamn drug as I did Stefan.
I never wanted an open casket at a funeral before either, but I was crushed to find that Stefan was already reduced to a vessel of ashes at his service.
I wanted to touch him. I wanted to touch his sad beautiful face. Just one last time.
The day after the funeral
Text to Stefan’s Brother
Two days after the funeral, I met up with The Brother at a bar in his Brooklyn neighborhood. I tried to ride a bike there to burn off the anxiety, but I arrived late, shaking with panic, and on the verge of sobbing. I’d not yet discovered the cavalcade of me throughout Stefan’s art, but I was devastated that I’d missed seeing Stefan at the wedding, terrified that my absence had contributed to his relapse/overdose, painfully alone in my grief, and desperate to talk.
As I clutched my whiskey and walked up to The Brother, the very first thing he said to me was that he couldn’t “get into it too deep” about Stefan. He was moving out of state at the end of the month (a move planned since before his marriage proposal) and kept having anxiety attacks, so he wasn’t able to discuss Stefan at length. Therefore, for about twenty minutes we only tangentially spoke about Stefan’s death without speaking about him directly; how the funeral had effected The Brother’s continued wedding plans, the impending move, etc. I tried to follow his lead, but as our brief time at the bar was coming to a close, I interjected a few more emotional and specifically Stefan-related comments.
“I missed my chance to see him! I was so nervous, I was afraid I was a problem, that my presence was going to cause a scene or something.”
“If it was a problem you wouldn’t have been invited” he said, curtly. “I asked Stefan if he was ok with you being there before I invited you.”
I wish he’d talked to me about any of this. I wish I’d known. It would have been so different if I’d known.
Also:
“I wanted to offer Stefan a place to crash for the wedding.”
“Yeah, that wouldn’t have been a good idea.” he replied dryly.
Also, I inexplicably blurted out:
“We were so in love!”(which was a very strange thing to say at the time, honestly. I’d not discovered myself repeatedly depicted in Stefan’s art at that point, and had no real reason to think such a thing.)
“Yeah, I know.” he replied.
(he knows?!)
And with that, the conversation on Stefan was over. We left the bar, ran errands, and hung out at his apartment for a few hours while he cooked dinner, pleasantly talking about anything but Stefan while I swallowed my bewildered sadness.
I’d no further contact with The Brother after that day. He was uprooting his whole life while juggling a family death. He deserved a break from everything and to have a fresh start. His wife deserved a happy beginning.
And so, Mutual Friend became my sole confidant in all matters Stefan, even in spite of his behavior surrounding the wedding and Stefan’s death.
While at the wedding after-party I’d made plans with Mutual Friend to meet up the following day for an early evening show and dinner. Mutual Friend ghosted me, left me hanging all day, only contacting me while he was having post-dinner drinks at a restaurant with someone else. I messaged him, pointed out how rudely he’d ditched me. He didn’t bother to reply.
When Stefan died six days later, Mutual Friend didn’t contact me. It took an additional week for Mutual Friend to call and leave a message:
“Uh, I am just calling to check in touch base after my visit, uh, and talk to you about the, what’s going on with the DeCarlo family? Give me a call back if you feel like it. Bye.”
In spite of this rather “on brand” behavior, eager to speak to anyone who actually knew Stefan, I turned to Mutual Friend. Though I’d asked him to not share my findings with The Brother and his new life, I was regularly updating Mutual Friend about the references to me I’d started to slowly find throughout Stefan’s art in the weeks following his death. My heartbreak and frustrated wonderings grew daily, and I hungered for answers that only The Brother could give me.
I thought two months of radio silence was enough time to wait before asking the questions of The Brother that were burning in my bereaving brain since July.
I wrote the following:
September 8th, 2024
Email to Stefan’s brother
Well, it’s been two months?
I had some things I wanted to say.
Stefan really did look up to you as a big brother. Your opinion was paramount to him. While it may have read to you as competition, he was only ever trying to earn your respect and acceptance. He desperately wanted your friendship and compassion, and was hurt that your visits didn’t include a knock on his bedroom door with familial concern and inquiry.
He’d told me once a story that had great meaning to him. When you guys were little and playing in a back yard, some kid did something crazy like stab Stefan with something? And in retaliation you freaked out and screamed and jumped on the kid’s back, I think is what he said? Stefan held that memory tightly. It meant that you cared, that you were willing to defend him, physically even, which was out of character for you and therefore held even more value to him. A moment in time that he really cherished. Brotherly camradarie, protection, and love.
Questions:
You’d said that you before inviting me, you’d asked Stefan if he was ok with my attending your wedding. Before asking his approval, were you going to not invite me to avoid him having to see me? Did you ask him what was going on? Did he want to see me, or was he avoiding me? Was my presence potentially that negative?
When I mentioned to you at the bar that I’d wanted to offer him a place to crash for the wedding, you said that wouldn’t have been a good idea. Why?!
What was going on with him? Why was interacting with me such a problem? Either for you or for him?
I just want to know what the fuck was going on.
Thanks.
September 15th, 2024
Email to Stefan’s brother
Please, man.
September 17th, 2024
Text to Stefan’s brother
Could you please email me back?
September 21st, 2024
Email to Stefan’s brother
OK then.
This is from me and Stefan: https://fffooo.xxx/sf
At the very least you could read, look at, and listen to the final Sticky Friends collaboration. Do take your time going through it all.
I have a tracker on my site. He clicked the link.
Still no response.
Meanwhile, Mutual Friend continued to defensively insist that he’d been right to discourage me from contacting Stefan, from offering Stefan a place to crash before the wedding; he’d been right to let Stefan leave with his folks without comment, knowing I’d wanted to see him, knowing I’d already wanted to offer my home to him. Why?!
“Because I remember what it was like when you were splitting up.”
So, it wasn’t because he thought Stefan would have a negative reaction to me, but because he feared we’d rekindle our relationship?! I found Mutual Friend’s insistent justification to be meddlesome, heartless, and offensive, not to mention a conspicuous show of protective concern for my well being; utterly out of character for him.
Over a decade ago, Mutual Friend met up with newly un-sober Stefan at a bar. Shortly after their meetup, Mutual Friend told me: “I gotta say, Stefan’s a lot more pleasant to deal with when he’s got some drinks in him.”
What a thoughtful and compassionate guy.
Only now after Stefan’s death did Mutual Friend tell me that during that same alcohol fueled chat long ago, Stefan had explained why he’d just ended his ten years of sobriety:
Because I’d taken his best friend away.
If my presence had that profound an effect on his life, why weren’t we encouraged to find each other again?
I told Mutual Friend that I suspected his motivations in keeping Stefan and I apart had nothing to do with my well-being, and certainly not Stefan’s. Being that my friend was so steadfast in his convictions, I suggested that he go through the sprawling art collection I was still compiling, to listen to the music mix I’d arranged, and to think of the isolated heartbreak of both myself and Stefan while he did so.
In response to this, rather than look, rather than listen, rather than face the mounting reality, rather than give me any straight answers to the questions I’d been consistently asking about my invitation to the wedding (the wedding at which he was the Best Man), Mutual Friend emailed the following:
September 26th, 2024
Email from mutual friend
(excerpt)
…I think <the brother> is deep in the throes of grief over losing his brother, and finds it deeply upsetting having to dredge up the details of Stefan’s last months on earth to support the narrative you’ve created, especially given the accusatory tone you’ve taken with him (and it is accusatory, regardless of what semantic debates you want to have about it).
I think you need help. I know that sounds condescending and reductive, and I’m sorry, but I don’t know any other way to say it. Even if I did subscribe to the narrative you’re trying to create about you and Stefan (I find most of the connections you’re suggesting tenuous, at best; I think you’re finding what you want to find), combing through years’ of social media posts from a dead man looking for clues about his emotions is a deeply morbid and disturbing thing to do.
… and then I discovered Mutual Friend, a man I’d known for thirty years, had blocked me on all social media.
And so, the only two people with whom I could discuss Stefan with any degree of personal understanding have cut me off. Thus, I’ve funneled my isolation and grief into this ever expanding sprawling project.
The idea that I’d want to find years of unrequited longing from someone who is gone forever is madness. Why would I wish for this? But if I am indeed being morbid and disturbing, would Stefan of all people take issue with that? I think not.
But hey. Maybe I’m just a delusional asshole.
…
Looking up restricted status on instagram, I came across this:
Accidental Interaction (Comments or DMs)
If you’ve accidentally interacted with the other person’s posts or messages in a way that Instagram interprets as harassment or unwanted attention, Instagram might automatically take action to restrict your account’s interactions with theirs. For example, if you frequently send unsolicited messages or comments, it could trigger the restriction mechanism.
Unintentional Behavior
If you or the other account engage in behavior that’s interpreted as harassment (even if not intended that way), Instagram may automatically place restrictions on the account. Some examples of behaviors that can trigger this include:
- Excessive tagging of the person in posts or comments.
- Repeatedly commenting on their posts in a way that seems inappropriate or repetitive.
- Sending too many direct messages that might be perceived as spammy.
- Using certain words or phrases that Instagram flags as inappropriate or harmful.
So there’s a chance instagram itself restricted me?! My many attempts to contact him not being ignored, but honestly not seen? His reels and stories posted for my view, ones that I couldn’t see, which he thought I was ignoring?
I’d no idea that was a possibility.
It’s all just so stupid. So many tiny pieces of misunderstanding and near misses. Countless moments of could-have-been. A tragedy of infinite errors.
…
One of Stefan’s voice messages to me these last few years was explaining that he might sound weird talking because he spends his days alone and doesn’t speak to anyone most of the time.
Me too.
We’re both the same broken, anxiety-ridden agoraphobes we were when we first met. We’ve both been so isolated, so empty, so lovelorn for so many years.
We didn’t have to be. We would have fought for each other. We would have helped each other survive this cruel world. We would have made every day magic with stupid cute little gifts for each other, because that’s what we did.
…
By the time the years-long relationship with the post-Stefan boyfriend fell apart, I had no desire for companionship. After five years of spinsterhood, I briefly dated a much younger man. Aside from that fleeting affair, I’ve been untouched and uninterested for nine or ten years.
I’d even tried meeting people through an app. I went on one date, and the guy was very cool, perfect on paper, but I gave up. I couldn’t convince myself to go through a formal dating ritual.
“What is it that you are looking for? What do you want, Rachael?” a friend asked.
“I want to be in love.” I answered.
I’d no inkling that Stefan desired me beyond friendship. I had no clue that my longing hidden heartache was reciprocated. I only knew that nothing and nobody could compare to Stefan and our time together.
But you aren’t supposed to want the boy who broke your heart into a million screaming shards. You aren’t supposed to yearn for the person who tried so hard to make you hate him as much as he hated himself. You aren’t supposed to unconditionally love the man who didn’t choose you.
You aren’t supposed to.
But I did.
I never stayed away from him because of the danger, because of the drugs, wise as that might be. I only kept at a distance when I thought I complicated his recovery. And because my heart still trembled at the thought of him.
It seems obvious in retrospect. There is an existential horror to losing yourself in your perfect partner. We had that. We truly did. We were both too broken to know how to handle that intensity.
We would now, though. With fifteen years of experience and introspection, loneliness and longing, with the identity chaos of our twenties long behind us and our fifties on the horizon, we would ride that tsunami of love with the grace and dexterity of Gene Kelly and Cyd Charisse.
Would Stefan stay sober with me back in his life? Given my profound impact and influence on him over the years, it’s fair to conclude that I was definitely his best chance. Still, addiction being the beast that it is, I acknowledge that Stefan might’ve died the same way down the road, regardless of my presence.
It would have been worth it.
One kiss would have been worth it.
That one kiss, a kiss so many years in the making; a kiss that would have ripped us from our separate worlds of loneliness and changed the course of both of our lives.
The weight of that wish is crushing my lungs.
I can feel the spectre of our almost reunion haunting me daily. The cobwebs of that tangent universe brush across my brain in a million tiny ways of every moment.
Just a few hours could have changed my entire human existence. Had we seen each other in the flesh, looked into each other’s faces, I have no doubt that we’d not be able to keep our hands off of each other, and I’d have experienced what it was like to be in love with Stefan while he was in love with me.
We were so fiercely and passionately devoted to each other and in love when trying desperately to not be. I can’t even imagine the intensity that would radiate from seeing unabashed romance in his gaze, from hearing the words “I love you” escape from his whispering lips, from feeling his strong safe embrace envelop me for forever.
No, that’s wrong. I can imagine it. I can feel it. I can taste it. I see every detail behind my eyelids in an endless tortuous carousel of almosts. Every sensation exists so vividly that his absence from this earthly plane creates sonic boom in my solar plexus with a want that possesses the gravity of a black hole.
The ghost of his flesh whispers to me between text messages and emails while I watch our story quietly unfold, picture by picture, behind the cold glass of a computer screen. The caress of phantom fingertips stains me with streaks of crimson as I swim through an unending avalanche of us.
If only I could drown into him.
My back story as an