I Miss You

Dealing with loss, fighting with memories. A story of love, pain, and hope about a boy who meets a girl with purple hair and a very strange personality.

 

 

 

 

 

I Miss You

 

            I’m standing in our apartment. Except now, it’s just my apartment. It feels strange to say that. My apartment. I guess when you’re in love, you feel like what you have will go on forever. There’s still a part of me that expects her to walk in at any moment, but I know she won’t.

            I look around, and everything is a reminder. I’ve surrounded myself with memories. It’s funny how those same memories that used to bring a smile to my face, now they only bring tears. Most people go through this when they lose someone. There are always so many pictures, rings, letters. They have to choose. Do I keep these memories, or do I bury them?

            I think it’s harder for me, because she was an artist. I have more than pictures; I have paintings, sketches, even sculptures. She made them. A piece of her, captured on canvas for me to keep. So I wouldn’t forget how much she cared. They work, I can’t forget.

            There are so many, I don’t know why she look the time.

            Because she loved me.

            This thought brings more tears, and somehow, a smile. I still don’t understand how I can feel so happy and so sad at the same time. My chest is tight, my heart aches, but there are still butterflies in my stomach and I can still feel my toes tingling, the way they used to when she kissed me. I’ve had this feeling a lot these last few weeks.

            My walls are covered in artwork, but all the best ones have a special place. There’s a scrapbook on our hope chest. Sorry, my hope chest. The scrapbook has a picture of a dandelion on the front. It was a gift, from her. She told me that every time someone wishes on a dandelion, each seed gets carried away by the wind to make a new dandelion, and a new wish for someone else.

            It’s where I keep my favorite drawings. Some are hers, some are mine. There are other things too, poems and photos. Every Sunday we looked through it together, and added another page.

            I haven’t been able to look inside since she left, but now I do. I open it to the first page and I laugh, but it hurts. It’s a drawing of a bra, purple with pink polka dots. Underneath it says, “I’ll always support you, I hope you’ll support me too.”

The second page is a recipe for orange and peppermint cremosas. I read this, smiling, and remember the first time we met. I remember feeling so alone, I remember feeling bitter and unloved. I was so close to giving up…

 

I am sitting in a coffee shop, alone, brooding over some pointless homework assignment. I hear the door open and a girl is standing at the entrance. Her hair is short and wild, streaked with patches of blue and purple.

            There are numerous empty tables, but for some reason she tosses her purse on mine, completely violating my bubble of personal space. She pulls up a chair and sits down beside me, orange and peppermint cremosa in hand, like we’re the best of friends.

            “Are you a nerd?” she says, as if that’s a completely normal thing to ask a stranger.

            I look up from my textbook, unsure if I heard her correctly.

“No. I’m not a nerd. I just want to pass psychology.”

            I go back to my homework, hoping she’ll go away. She leans over her cremosa, slurping the beverage through a straw, barely blinking as she watches my every move. After an awkward silence, she makes another attempt at conversation.

            “Do you like psychology?”

            I look up again, gazing blankly for a moment before answering, “It’s interesting, I guess.”

            “I like psychology, and watching people. You know, you can really learn a lot about someone if you just pay attention.”

 “Oh yeah, so what have you figured out about me?”

            “That you’re in a psychology class.”

            “Brilliant.”      

“Also that you’re sarcastic. But you don’t really seem mean. I think you’re a bit reserved, because you’re afraid.”

            “Afraid of what?”

            “People. Life.”

            I give her a funny look and try to read, but I can’t stop thinking about what she said to me. I know I shouldn’t let it bother me, I mean, she is insane. Still, I have this strange feeling in my stomach, and I find myself wondering. Am I afraid?

The chances of my getting any work done seem surprisingly slim. The girl, still staring at me, squints her eyes before interrupting my train of thought with another inappropriate personal question.

            “Are you happy?”

            “Well, I was until a certain weirdo decided to bother me.”

            She smiles.

            “I don’t mean right now. I mean are you happy with your life.”

            I don’t know what to say. I’m not sure if it’s because I don’t feel like having this conversation, or if I simply don’t know.

            “Um… I guess so.”

            “That means you aren’t. There is no guessing. If you were really happy you’d know it.”

            “Is that so?”

            “Mhm,” she says, nodding matter-of-factly.

            I can’t help but smile.

“But really, there’s no reason you should be unhappy.”

            This is crossing the line. This girl does not know me.

“You’re crazy.”

            “No, just eccentric. But sometimes it’s hard to tell the two apart. I guess I’ll have to forgive you. Maybe a sip of orange and peppermint cremosa would make you feel better?”

            She offers me her drink, I take it and eye it with caution, bringing it towards my face, but then I smell it. My head jerks back.

            “That’s disgusting. Orange and peppermint do not make a good combination.”

            “You’re no fun. I think they go together quite well, thank you very much. There’s lots of other stuff in there too, though.”

            “Yeah, like what?”

            She holds out both hands and begins counting on her fingers. “Well, let me see, there’s cinnamon, spice, dreams, hope, wishes, hugs, and just the tiniest drop of cuddling for good measure.”

            Part of me thinks this is cute, part of me still wants her to go the hell away.

            “You’re telling me I’m unhappy, and shouldn’t be, but why are you so damn cheerful? Don’t you have any worries, anything that bothers you?

            “Oh, tons.”

            “But you’re still happy?”

            “Why not?”

            I blink as the girl snatches away my textbook and starts to read aloud, “Humans tend to search for strong emotional connections with others. The most prominent of these connections is the feeling we call love.”

            She puts down the textbook.

            “What do you think about love?” she says.

            “It’s a myth.”

            “Is that why you’re not happy?”

            I look down, avoiding her piercing gaze. She doesn’t seem to notice.

            “Love is a very powerful thing. I guess if you don’t believe in love you don’t believe in soul mates either, do you?”

            “Of course I don’t.”

            “Why not?”

            “It’s illogical. There are so many things that make every person different. There’s no way that any two people could match up perfectly in every interest, every category. Even if it was possible, the odds of finding that person would be astronomical.”

            She looks at me, and there’s an emotion in her eyes I can’t identify. A mixture of sadness and thought. Her eyes are a deep, crystal blue, and I can’t stop looking at them.

            “Well, maybe it’s not about finding the perfect person. Maybe it’s about finding an imperfect person and loving them perfectly. Maybe your soul mate is the person who will do the same for you.”

            This really throws me off. This girl looks at the world differently than I do in so many ways. She’s definitely abnormal. But she’s the happy one. I don’t know why. Am I afraid of a relationship, of getting hurt?      

“You know, just because you haven’t seen something, just because you haven’t felt it, doesn’t mean that the thing doesn’t exist.”

            I’m lost in thought, and jump in surprise at her words. She smiles, laughing as I struggle to catch my coffee without drenching myself.     

“I should probably be going,” she says, standing up.

            “Already?” I ask.

            “Yeah, things to do, people to see.”

            She’s walking towards the door, I feel something in my stomach, a lurch, a flutter, I don’t know. I stand up and call out to her, “Wait.”

            She turns and looks.

            “Before you go, can I ask you a question?”

            “Sure.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “Amae,” she says, still smiling.

And then she’s gone, and I can’t stop thinking. Every time I close my eyes, I see hers, staring back at me. My toes tingle and my stomach is queasy. I am no longer sure of anything…

 

Now I’m back in my apartment. I’m holding a recipe for orange and peppermint cremosas. My stomach is still queasy, and my toes still tingle, but my chest feels fine Right now, I feel good. I’m touching the words. Dreams, hugs, cinnamon…

Hope.

I think that’s the big one. After that day, I just couldn’t stop thinking about this strange girl called Amae. Because of hope. There are lots of things we want, but sometimes we don’t realize it until the thing is within our reach. It’s like the desire stays buried to protect us from the pain, until someone is willing to dig it up. Someone has to show us.

For a moment I feel like I’m on the verge of something really deep, but then I realize that this is the same way little kids feel about shiny toys in the mall. Still, I’d like it to mean something more than that.

Did I want her because I saw her, like some immature child, or did seeing her show me that I wanted her, or at least someone like her?

I really don’t know, and that’s the hardest part. When we were together, I was so sure that she was perfect, and that no one else could ever come close. But then again, I was high on a natural cocktail of testosterone and serotonin.

I guess time will tell. As a logical human being I’m sure that there are other people in this great big world that can make me just as happy as she did, but for some reason my heart just doesn’t want to believe. I laugh because I feel like a wanna-be philosopher, analyzing my own life. These are the type of thoughts that she always used to have.

I’m still holding the recipe. I put it back, carefully. I move on to my other memories. The next page has a poem, the first poem I ever wrote. Beside it is a yellowed napkin that I found tucked into my psychology book after Amae left the coffee shop. There’s a phone number written on it.

I spent days wondering whether I should call her, thinking about what I would say, how I would say it, ways to be smooth. A week later, I finally did call her, but the conversation didn’t go quite the way I’d expected…

 

“Hello?”

“Amae, I don’t know if you remember me but—“

“Hey you. You should meet me at the library.”

“Uh, okay. When?”

“Now.”

“You mean, like—“

“Bye! See ya soon sweetie.”

 

Did she just call me sweetie? I shouldn’t have called her, I knew she was crazy. Still, I’m driving towards the library. This can only end badly.

I walk in and look around for purple hair. Nope, no Amae. I grab a magazine and take a seat in a corner of the library. But I’m too anxious to read, so I just stare at the pages while my mind races. Why did I call her, she’s too weird, this was a bad idea. I sigh, take a deep breath, and try to calm myself.  

I look down and notice the name of my magazine. Psychology Today. How ironic. Maybe there’s a test inside that can tell me exactly what the hell is wrong with me. I start to flip through the pages.

“See, I knew you were a nerd.”

I look up, and she’s there. This time her hair is orange, highlighted with strands of red. My mouth goes dry.

“I’m not a nerd, I just…”

My voice trails off.

“Oh no, you’re definitely a nerd. But that’s a good thing. It makes life more interesting. Don’t worry though, I’m a nerd too.”

She empties her bookbag onto the floor. There’s a pile of notebooks covered with pens and colored pencils.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“This,” she says, handing me a notebook, “Is how we’re going to get to know each other.”

“And how exactly is this going to help us do that?”

“Art.”

I wait for her to explain, but she doesn’t.

“Oh. Of course. Art. Thank you for enlightening me.”

“Don’t be mean. If you’re confused, you could just say so.”

I refuse to dignify this with an answer.

“Fine, meanie. At least listen. Most people, when they’re getting to know each other, will say anything to keep up a conversation, but they don’t say anything, know what I mean? Kinda boring if you ask me. I think the art someone makes tells you a lot more about who the person really is.”

“Quite the little philosopher, aren’t you?”

Nod.

“So, what, you want me to look at your pictures?”

“No, I want you to draw one.”

“And what are you going to do, stare at me the whole time?”

“I can if you want, but I was thinking I’d draw something too.”

“Sounds interesting, I guess, but you’re going to have to think of something else.”

“Why?” She’s pouting, arms across her chest.

“I can’t draw.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, I can’t. Trust me.”

“Oh poo. Anyone can draw. You just have to try.”

“Not doing it.”

I lift my nose and look to the side. For a while she doesn’t say anything, just stares. And then she pokes me.

“Please.” Poke. “Come on.”

“No.”

“Please.” Poke. “Please.” Poke. “Please.” Poke. “Please.” Poke. “Ple—“

“Fine! Give me the damn notebook.”

She smiles. “See, I knew you were nice.”

I haven’t drawn since kindergarden, but I try. I look outside and see a cherry blossom tree. I study the lines and shadows. I try to put them on the paper. I look up at Amae, and her head is tilted to the side, one hand resting on her chin.

“Is that a lollipop?” she asks.

“It’s supposed to be a tree…”

“Oh.” Silence. “Well, you just need more practice is all. But for today, maybe we should try something else. Ever write poetry?”

“Nope.”

“Well, can you read?”

“Yes, I can read.”

“Can you speak?”

“No, I’m talking to you through telepathy.”

“That’s close enough. And that means you can write a poem.”

“What am I supposed to write about?”

“Whatever you want, just open up and let yourself go.”

I am not an open person. But she’s watching me, she’s waiting. This is probably the strangest moment of my life. I consider walking out, but then I look up, and I see her eyes. They seem to go on forever and I just can’t stop looking. I sigh. It looks like I’m going to write a poem.

I start with an idea web. Brain storming. It’s like a bad dream where I end up back in English class. At least this time I still have all my clothes on.

 Amae sees me writing and claps her hands with joy. I smile, and she picks up her own notebook. I wonder what she’s drawing.

I get to work on my poem, writing, rewriting lines, crossing out entire sections. I’m trying not to censor myself, to be open, but it’s hard to be happy with what I write. I know Amae is going to read it. I’m afraid of being judged, but for some reason I don’t think I will be, at least not by her. Life should make more sense.

A half hour later, I’ve got something I’m not completely embarrassed by, even though it still sounds like something you’d find on a Hallmark card. I’m starting to feel uneasy. I can see Amae watching me over the top of her drawing. I wonder if I can get my poem into the trashcan without her noticing. No, it’s too late, she’d find it. I either have to eat it, or show her. I sigh.

“Finished.”

She looks up from her notebook with a sly smile and reaches for the poem. I give it to her. She reads it. God I feel awful. What’s she thinking? Does she like it? Does she think it’s stupid? Too mushy? Does she think it’s a love poem? Does she maybe…

“Hug.”

“What?” I look up, and she’s standing over me, arms outstretched.

“Hug me.”

I do, and part of me wants to hold on and never let go, but I know I can’t. I start to back off, but she’s still holding me. At first I feel awkward, but then I put my arms around her and pull her close. A minute later, she finally lets me go.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, or if I’m supposed to say anything at all. But then she smiles and hands me her notebook. I look at the picture. There’s a wall, stone bricks, hard and rough. But there’s a piece missing, and I can see what’s behind the wall. There’s a pile of rubble, and in the center a flower is just starting to bloom. “What’s it mean?” I ask.

“Whatever you want it to.”

 

I’m in my apartment again, looking at the first poem I ever wrote. I can’t believe I showed it to her. Just reading it makes me feel lame.

 

Smile for speak

Hands to hold

Hugs from heart

A fair trade, color for words

Art for art

What a nice way to start,

When life seems so rough,

We try and try, but it’s never enough.

Always pain, always the same,

An everlasting turn at an unfair game.

But you don’t have to play alone,

With the help of a friend,

The stress, the sorrow,

Maybe it could end,

Someone to help you up again.

It’s more than a loan, than something borrowed,

Free, yet priceless, a gift,

To sew the rift with a rose-colored stitch.

This I want for you and me,

There’s so much more that we could be.

 

            Okay, maybe it’s not that bad, there might even be something worth saying in there, but I still feel weird when I read it. Especially now that it’s more than just a memory, it’s a reminder. We had it all, at least I thought we did. And now it’s gone.

Sometimes I wonder if I was just a pet project for her. She wanted me to open up, and when I finally did, maybe the game was over for her.

            No. I know that’s not the truth. She’s better than that. But if that’s not the reason, I don’t know what is. Why did she have to leave? I don’t have an answer.

            But she still cares, I know she does.

Whatever happens, I’ve decided I’m going to keep the scrapbook and her paintings. It hurts to lose her, but I can at least be happy that we had something special, even if it couldn’t last. I know that one day, when I see these reminders, instead of crying, I’ll smile. These are my memories, and I’m going to keep them.

But for today, I think I’ve remembered enough. I start to close my scrapbook, but before I do, I go back to the recipe. Orange and peppermint cremosas. Hope... Something clicks in the back of my mind. Maybe I still have one more chance.

I jump from my chair and start clearing the walls of my apartment. I put the paintings on my sofa, nearly dropping them in my excitement. I take out a pocket knife and cut a corner of the wall paper, and then I start to rip it off until there’s nothing left but the white underneath. My apartment is blank, new, filled with possibility.

I get my paints from the bedroom, and I’m ready. I’m going to create something for her, to prove that she means the world to me. 

Grey first, for the wall. It’s the same wall from Amae’s drawing, but this time, there’s hardly any of it left. Green is next, because there’s a garden growing up through the rubble. Lots of green. I mix the green with white, and now I have peppermint. On either side there’s a line of trees; their branches are heavy with dozens of fat, yellow oranges. The garden is filled with flowers, orange, blue, yellow and red. More red than anything, because there’s so many roses. The sky is purple, and the clouds are pink. The clouds are shaped like hearts. There’s a rainbow too, but the colors are backwards. Just the way I like it.

Hours later, I’m finished, and I’m so excited I can barely stand it. If we had our own special place, this would be it. It’s so perfect. For me, it says more than words ever could. When Amae sees it, I know that she’ll think the same.

 

Author's Note

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Reviews

[Damian Alan Gray]

This was like a page ripped from my own life's scrapbook. Wonderfully written and brilliantly insightful. The way that you opened the story in your lonely apartment threw me back a couple of years to a point in my life when I went through the same thing. Why does EVERYTHING have to be a memory, when all you want to do is forget?! Thank god for bonfires.
I truly hope that your sky, like mine, remains purple.

[Nazarea]

beautiful, wonderful. Touches the reader...at least, touched me. I could almost see them, see him, working so feverishly on creating something for HER. Your very talented, and I look forward to more of your work.
Nazarea~

[TL Boehm]

We write what we know, and even though you may know heartache, even more, you know the inner fabric of relationships - the attention to detail in this is wonderful. The little things definitive of connection...the artwork left behind, the mechanics of poetry (I liked the inclusion of the poem in this piece) all laid out for the reader - backed by solid sentence structure and believable dialogue. I related to this piece, and I enjoyed reading it. We need more 'stories' at the cafe. More like this.

[Adventerous Amy]