There’s sunlight streaming in through the window. I snuggle further into my blankets, the deep blue comforter that you picked out because you had graciously allowed me to decide on the paint color for the walls. There’s a warm cocoon surrounding me here, but something is missing.

Blinking in confusion, I move my hands, trying to grasp at your waist to pull you closer to me.

Except the bed is empty.

Frowning, I sit up and take in the sight of your vacant side of the bed.

Everything floods back instantly, and I fall into the tear stained pillows with a strangled sob.

You’re not here because I pushed you away.

You’re not here, and you never will be again.

I don’t leave the bed for the next three days.

------

There’s a pounding on the door that rivals the one beating against my eyelids. It’s irritating and painful, but I know I deserve the pain. Besides, it hardly compares to the emptiness I feel in my soul.

Disoriented by the incessant light, I stumble to the walkway.

Why did you insist on such a bright and airy scheme for our apartment? I’ve never hated anything quite as much. Except maybe myself, but that is a different story. Or maybe the same story. It’s hard to tell anymore.

My muddled thoughts are rudely interrupted by another knock at the door, instantly reminding me why I was forced to leave the safety of my blankets in the first place.

I hold a hand up to my eyes to block some of the light and slowly open the door.

It’s not you. Not that I was hoping it would be. But I must admit that I was, and now that it isn’t you standing outside the doorway, I have to hold tightly onto the frame to keep from falling to the floor.

“What do you want?”

“I heard you were sick. Just brought you some soup,” he says as he holds up a container as if that explains everything when in reality in explains nothing at all. “Way to be grateful, jerk.”

He was my friend first, but after you and I started dating he became our friend. Now he’s just another reminder of you.

“Who said I was sick?” It’s a real question. I called into work and said I was taking a vacation. Why would he assume I was ill when I specifically lied so everyone would think I was fine?

He looks away sadly, running a hand through his dark hair as he sets the soup on the counter. “You know who.”

I’m stunned, but also sort of not.

You.

You called him. You told him to check on me. But why would you do such a thing for me still?

“H-how is he?”

My voice is ragged from the pained shouts and depressed tears that have been drowning me for the past week.

He sighs heavily and won’t meet my eyes. I’m not sure that I want him to because I know that he’d be able to read the desperation etched into the lines of my face.

“He’s good.”

“Good?” You’re good? Without me? I’m barely hanging on, and you’re doing just fine. The thought is not as comforting as I’d imagined it to be. But then again, I am selfish.

“What do you want me to say? That he’s crying himself to sleep at night. That he hasn’t eaten any real food in days, and I’m not sure that I’ve ever seen anyone that looked more like a zombie in my life. Will that really make you feel better?”

Yes.

Wait…no. No it wouldn’t.

I shake my head morosely and plop onto the couch. The couch that you picked out because it was the most comfortable for you to lay down on with your head rested in my lap when we watched movies.

I stand up as if burned, backing away from the memories that are threatening to eat me alive, only to crash into the wall. A picture falls onto my head, the glass cracking slightly from the impact. I stare down at it wishing that I was blind.

It was from last year’s Christmas party. As cheesy as it sounds, you’d forced me under the mistletoe and proceeded to kiss every complaint from my lips until I was drunk on the feel of your lips against me. The picture was taken right as we’d stopped for air, our foreheads pressed together and contented smiles mirroring each other, with the soft glow of red and green and blue lights haloing our faces.

I clutch the frame tightly to my chest. Somehow the glass has managed to bite into my palms, but I don’t care.

“You need to talk to him. Tell him already,” he says as he pulls the picture away from me.

I nod as if I am agreeing, but it’s a lie. I won’t talk to you because if I see you, I know that I’ll never be able to let you go again.

He talks in the background while shoving a steaming bowl of tomato soup at me. I half heartedly sip at it if only to get him to leave faster. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing that it tastes nothing like the soup that you make. Does it make me miss you more? Is that even possible?

When he finally leaves, after making me promise to talk to you once again, I sag into my seat like a boneless pile of dead leaves. I hear my cell phone ringing and manage to find it squished under your pillow. Distracted, I take a deep breath, reveling in the familiar scent of you.

I stare at my phone in shock until my battery dies sometime later. Even then, the message is burned into the backs of my eyes.

It feels like I can’t breathe without you beside me.