Two months. It felt like forever, yet it
had only been two months. Two months, since he'd last stopped kissing me. Two
months, since he'd last stopped hugging me. Two months, since he'd last stopped
loving me...
In the dark I roll over, to touch the pillow still fresh with the scent of him.
For a moment I can imagine that he's still here, the light in the bathroom
covered by his silhouette. My breath catches, momentarily, and he's gone. The
bed, meant for two, now barely filled by one. The flat, meant for us, now
rarely used by me. My heart which has known such happiness now answers to the
call of melancholy, that darkest of emotions. Entrapment is easy...escape,
impossible.
It is hard to take my hand, from the pillow that used to belong to him, the
pull is so strong, but I break away. Tears well up, and I fight them, not
wanting to cry yet again, but I'm too weak. They roll down my face, fiery and
cold, angry and sad, a whirl of emotions that explain it all. When daylight
enters through a crack in the curtains, I'm curled up defensively. It is clear
that the attacks of the night have taken their toll.
The alarm rings unreservedly, beating its unwelcome tune through my body,
chilling my spine. Slowly, I unravel myself and sit up. A new day has begun,
but it's another day without him. Everything I do next feels like it's being
done in slow motion. I dress, eat, get ready for work. Like normal people do.
Only, it doesn't feel normal, without him here.
Today, it is cold. Today, I have to hug myself to keep warm. Today, I am the
one who holds my hand to stop myself feeling lonely.