“
Even I can hear the false cheeriness, the raw desperation in my voice. It seems to reflect my actions. Sitting alone in Starbucks, mindlessly ordering drink after drink. I don’t even like it here. I can’t leave. Can’t take my eyes off the door. Because if he comes in and I miss him then I could never forgive myself.
Eventually I worked up the courage, or cowardice depending on your perspective, to leave. I wandered the streets, purposefully taking the root that lead me by our old apartment. Did he still live there? He told me he was going to move out. I assume he did.
I could’ve made it work out. I know I could‘ve. And I accept that our ending was partly my fault. Working 24/7 just has a way of draining you of patience and manners. Coupled with the bitter sting of his unemployment and the endless pool of depression that accompanied it just drove us off the edge. I would snap at him and, being depressed, he would just accept it, take it to heart and hate himself more. He would never admit that I was the one making him want to kill himself, not even to himself, but I knew.
The house. Empty without his mess, his cluttered existence to breathe life into it. Without him, my house can never be home. The coffee table is incomplete without stains from the bottom of his mugs, without his scraps of paper everywhere. The bed is not mine without it being his.
“Hey. Are you ok? How have you been? Up to much? It’s Frank by the way. Well… I hope to hear from you soon.”
He’s probably sick of my messages. They will only serve as a reminder to both of us. They will only hold him back. I want him to be happy possibly for the first time in his life. There is something about him that makes it impossible for him to live with himself. I saw it in him the first time we met. The small spark of broken vulnerability that dwells at the core of all he does. It is in his hunched posture; in his drawings; in his voice and embedded in his soul. For some reason it made him all the more beautiful. He was completely irresistible to me.
“I hope you get this Gerard. It’s Frank. Again. I- I really want to know how you’ve been. You’ll make me worry if you keep on blanking me like this.”
Months slip into years and before I know it, we’ve been separate longer than we were together. Today it has been exactly 3 years and 6 months. At night, lying in the more-often-than-not all but empty bed, I let myself think about him. I allow myself to regret that final message. For a brief moment it is okay to wish that I had demanded to see him, burst into our old apartment to find him there. Lying to myself in the hours when I cannot sleep is like my lullaby. I eventually drift off, but in my heart I can still feel the sting. Because it wouldn’t have been okay.
Relationships passed by like a blur. Girls, boys. All of them mixing and combining in my memory. All with olive green eyes and dark hair.
I have almost forgotten our relationship; I am almost over it. The pain doesn’t burn or sting anymore. It is merely a painful scar. An ugly stitch on my heart, a hurtful memory.
Passing through the centre of town, meandering pointlessly through the life that surrounds me. It is almost a shock to see it, still there, identical to how it always looked. Starbucks, just round the corner from our old apartment. I don’t want to go in, but I do. The same tables, the same poignant smell. I settle down at the only empty table, and the scar in my chest twinges slightly. It is in the same place. It is where I used to sit and wait for you.
Did you abandon this place? I never saw you. It hurt me to think you might have changed without me knowing.
Why was I putting myself through this? I asked myself. But I already knew. For some reason sitting here, having one last coffee at my table would close this chapter of my life. Your chapter. The pages of my book that you scrawled yourself all over.
Walking back from the counter, eyes fixed upon the coffee in my hand. Concentration. I was never good at not spilling drink everywhere, no matter what I was crying. Even when I carried furniture some liquid or other seemed to get spilt.
Glance up.
Breathing stops. Because. It’s you.
Here. At last.
You haven’t noticed me. Your head it down, black hair, even longer than before, dishevelled as always. Sprawled across your face like a tattered curtain. Awkward movement. Shuffling further into the room. You never look up. As though you know that I am here.
I don’t know what to do. Frozen. Transfixed. My mind, racing. Panic builds in my chest. It rages, untameable. My stomach has contracted and feels devastating empty or as though you have reached into me and tied it into a tight knot. Light headedness clouds my vision in the form of an empty blackness.
You are even more broken than before. The deep cracks that had shattered you so long ago had grown in my absence. You are barely together. I see it in you. Never before were you so weary, never did you feel so old.
Then it occurs to me: I haven’t seen you in over four years. You always looked younger than your years but acted older. You still look the same, your face hasn’t changed but you’ve lost weight. Fuck, you’re skinny. You were never skinny, even as a kid you were always slightly plump. You look wraith-like. Tortured. Exhausted.
Your phone blares and you fish it out of your pocket. I cannot move. I feel stuck, glued in place.
You tap out a text on your phone. Then you glance up.
Our eyes connect. Yours widen and shine as mine seem to glaze over, locking in on yours.
You do not move. We both stand, staring at each other. Then you cry and it breaks my unearthly rigor mortis.
Moving, gap closing. Hand raising, connecting with your skin. Goose bumps rise on your cheek under my hand.
The tears glass your eyes over and cling to your lashes as you fight them back. You close the distance between us, brushing your lips against mine. And I understand. You never initiated kisses, you lacked some confidence that drives people forward but now, in your desperate, muddled state, you reached out.
SMASH.
Hot coffee stains our trousers after the mug slipped from my grasp. We now have the attention of everyone in the whole place. The kiss is over, the small confession of your pain ended.
“Are you okay?”
A single tear escapes your left eye. And you shake your head.
“No,” you whisper defiantly to re-enforce the point.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is croaky and abused. As though my wind pipe has been damaged.
“You changed your number.”
My eyes fall to the floor, examining your boots. You’ve had them forever. You used to wear them every day.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat before daring to glance up into your gaunt face.
There is so much to say, but no words with which to voice it. I want to tell you of the sleepless nights, the doubts, the regret. But you know. Just as I know what you went through. The depression, exhaustion, despair, blame that you put yourself through. I know you can forgive me, it is only you that you will never forgiven. What for I have no clue. You have done nothing wrong, but as long as I have known you, you have despised yourself.
“I love you.”
You wraps your arms around my neck, and I return the gesture around your waist.
“I missed you so much.”
“I know.”
“I’ve been so alone.”
My heart breaks at your words. I know it’s all my fault. And I can’t forgive myself for your pain. We are closer than we have ever been before, equally dependant on each other. Two lost souls who can never forgive themselves.
When we finally leave that cursed place, we hold hands. I cannot smile but I am so glad that you are here. That we are us again.
It was the end of a chapter. But not the end of your chapter. For your chapter will last forever. Scrawled across my pages for all eternity.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
violet_tsirblou) wrote,
