For a second I wanted to touch his face. Or just hug him. Lean my head towards him and feel his chest on my cheek. But I didn’t move.
I did not know that I had enough pieces left of my heart at that point to leave one inside the car with him.
But I did.
I thought my legs would never unfreeze to take me out of the damn seat. But like hell they did.
My lungs were straining, my chest heavy. But I kept moving.
Breath never did come easy for me.
It has been past eight years going on nine since we lost each other.
Everyone, including himself, says that he has moved on and forgotten.
I can’t help but wish I could kid myself like that too.
Or am I already fooling myself thinking he was still the one?
Present-day:
The voice on the answering machine was cracking, distorted. The static already giving me a headache.
I pause, I know the message by heart. But there are huge gaping holes now.
An error message blinks at me from my phone. Its light the only thing lighting up my empty apartment room.
You are dangerously low on space. Clear up some data to keep using the device.
The blunt rain beats the windows mercilessly. The empty space echoing its monotonous rhythm perfectly. I left the kettle on, for a final cup of sweet tea. I never could leave home without one. Not even for the last time.
The answering machine waits for me to push the button so it could repeat the same three messages I held on for dear life all this time.
But I didn’t move.
Mom had called earlier. My watch read 11.34 pm. Which meant my mom and sister have gone to sleep already and it was too late to call back. They always slept before I did. Not for long I guess.
The kettle started whistling, rousing me from the tiny couch which now had a white cloth over it. Almost every other piece of furniture was covered except the grandfather clock with the broken pendulum.
I trace the familiar steps to my kitchenette, my fingers trailing along the walls and the paintings which still hung on them. They seem to warm up at my touch, as if they felt the sting of separation coming their way. I wish no one bothered my paintings when found. They unlike me, are fragile creatures who seemed to crumble at mere sight. One would say that art reflected a still image of the artist’s whole being at the point of creation. I doubt I could recognize the girl who painted them if that was truly the case.
I go through the familiar motions of making myself a cup of tea. Yet somehow my limbs remained stiff and my joints ground with effort. The place already seemed to shun me. The bitter taste of betrayal hanging in the air like a wet carpet.
The steaming cup warms my cheeks at the first sip as I hold it in both hands, waiting for it to thaw the frozen fingers. Two packed suitcases sat by their lonesome near the door. My eyes tracing their outlines in the dim light coming from the street.
The air is so still inside despite the raging storm outside. Not even the wind chimes moved. It gets increasingly harder to draw in one heavy breath after the other. It is as if the place was punishing me for giving up in this way.
But breath never did come easy for me.
I wash my cup at the sink, knowing that I have stalled enough. It was time now. It is funny how you know it is time, the certainty and the truth of it is enough to make one chuckle even at a time like this. But I didn’t.
The rain worsened. Cracks of thunder booming as lightning lit the whole place up. The storm wailed as if mourning a lost lover. The shadows deepened as I started walking towards the door. Bare feet dragging on the carpet.
The answering machine is silent. The phone blacked out. The rain only seemed to worsen with my every step.
I turn the cold doorknob glancing at the bags at my feet. It was finally time, and I could have chuckled again. Still, I did not. I start looking back but paused midway. This time I chuckle.
The door creaks open. My hands hang at my sides as I leave it open behind me.
My face shown with a smile so true it could have shattered heavens.
I felt the rain.
But I wasn’t cold anymore.
********
