Lately, sleep feels like a distant memory.
I can’t rely on pills to cure my insomnia, though I reach for them—they’re right there on the bedside table. I don’t even know how I ended up here again, back in the room where we used to dream up our future together.
The little round table still sits by the window. Your—no, their—things are still there. In the center, a vase with pink chrysanthemums, a notebook lying open with a purple ink pen resting on it. A perfume bottle you bought because it looked like a cat (who am I even talking to?). A desert-blue mug you used for your coffee, and a dessert plate you picked up just because it was pretty. There’s also a battered dictionary, the one you’d flip through when you couldn’t remember how to spell a word or it slipped your mind.
Everything is just as it was.
I haven’t dared to move a single thing.
The light of dawn creeps into the room, a small ray peeking through the window, now telling me the day has shifted. It urges me to get up and start working, but I don’t want to budge.
On that table, there’s also an old typewriter. You loved the sound of my fingers tapping away as I poured my thoughts onto paper. Honestly, who am I even speaking to? The pages are yellowed, untouched, covered in dust. Under the table, a small rug where your feet used to rest. On top of it, your slippers.
I got up. I was on the floor, wrapped only in a blanket you made for me. Autumn is fading, and all I can do is hope you’ll come back to me. It’s foolish, I know, but I can’t let you go.
You know, I’ll stop pretending I’m not talking to you.
Anyway, my dad stopped by a few days ago, suggesting we go for a walk. I said no. He helped with some cleaning, but I didn’t let him into this room—it belongs to just the two of us. He made me some food and didn’t leave until I finished every bite on the plate he served. Sometimes he mentions that my way of living isn’t healthy, but he won’t force me to change. He gets it—when Mom passed, he felt the same way.
Not long after, my brother showed up and insisted I take a shower. More like he made me. He said he’d try to open the windows more and tend to the garden plants so they don’t wither in the cold, but I didn’t do it. He came just to see me on my feet again, but it’s not enough. I don’t have the strength to keep going.
Lucile calls me every morning. She wants to see me eat breakfast. She reminds me I can’t live like this forever, but her words aren’t meant to encourage or insult. I know, but I don’t want to do anything. I’ve come to know loneliness in the worst way, and right now, all I want is for you to appear, wrap me in your arms, and tell me everything will be okay.
My brother-in-law calls during dinner. He wants to make sure I haven’t given up, that I’ll keep moving forward even without you.
They won’t let me fall apart completely.
I think there was a movie or something where someone left letters with instructions on how to move on. I can’t quite remember… Probably some tragic love story. I don’t know, because you didn’t leave me any instructions. I had no idea it would hurt this much, to the point where tears aren’t enough.
When I go up to our room, your scent still lingers… it shouldn’t, not after all this time. We had so many plans, but only a few came true. The bed still has your lilac pillow, so striking against the sheets. I remember how you’d lie down, rest your head on it, and smile when you caught me staring.
Your vanity still holds all the cosmetics you used. I guess they’re empty by now—nobody’s touched them. Your clothes are still in the closet, except for that dress. You know the one, don’t you? Our photos are still out for everyone to see… I’m the one who can’t let you go. Forgive me.
I heard the door open and went to check. My sister-in-law and brother came to see me. Maybe today’s the day for a shower (I have no clue what day it is). They’ve come so many times to make sure I find a way to live again, I hope life rewards them for it.
My brother takes me to bathe, shaves me, and cuts my hair. He says I can’t avoid turning in my manuscripts to the editor. Without meaning to, he reminds me that our last plan was to write our story and let the world know it. I don’t know where to start… When we met? Our past? The present we shared, or the future we dreamed of?
Truthfully, I’d rather not write it at all, because I love it so much that I hate it.
My sister-in-law cooks. She makes sure I finish my plate. They must not be tired of not hearing my voice. Aren’t they exhausted from coming over almost every day? While we eat, they mention a tribute. Your family is planning a tribute in your name, so you know they haven’t forgotten you… I don’t want to hear any more.
I feel so alone. I cry at the strangest moments and want to give up, but I don’t. The house is too big for just one person, but I can’t bring myself to sell it. Why haven’t I run away if I feel this awful? Why am I still here if I’m only half alive?
Sometimes I wish that even if you were gone, they could transplant your mind into a new body so I could hold you again. I know, it’s impossible, and besides, you wouldn’t want that. I’ve wandered through the house once more, and it feels like you’re still here. You haven’t left. Is it you who doesn’t want to go, or am I the one holding you back?
— Brother, your editor is coming…
I look at him, or at least I think I do, but I don’t respond.
— She wants to talk about the last novel you’re writing. Didn’t you say you’d call it "Himmel"? — he asks, not expecting a real answer. — Anyway, Daisy, stay with him. I’ll be back later.
— Sure, have a good day, honey… — she waves him off.
My sister-in-law does some light chores before starting to cook meals that’ll last a few days. She leaves me in the living room with an open book until she returns with my editor.
— Good to see you finally, Himmel. How are you holding up?
She gets no reply from me and presses on.
— Well, I came to check on the manuscript for your latest story. I’d like to review it, — she says. — It’ll be the first love story you’ve written and the last of your career. What will you do after?
I say nothing.
— Hey! — she snaps, grabbing me by the collar before quickly letting go. — It’s been ten years! How are you still living like this? Don’t you think she might come back and yank your feet at night? Think about your future!
Daisy rushes in, startled by the raised voice. She forces her to let go and step back. It’s not that I don’t know this, but I’m the one who can’t let her go. Why can’t anyone see it the way I do? Without her, I’m nothing.
— You’re just one step away from blaming her for your own failures! She’s gone, but you’re still here! At least live the life your parents gave you! — she exclaims, glaring at me. — I’ll be back in a month for the finished book. You’re the one who said it. You’re the one who proposed it. — She points at me. — Do you think it’s romantic to live waiting for her to come back? Do you think it’s okay to drag on with this pathetic excuse for a life? You’re burdening everyone around you with your selfishness.
Daisy throws a cushion at her face and forces her out.
— Don’t listen to her. If you’re going to write that book, take your time, — she says with a warm smile. — You’re not a burden to anyone. You said it once yourself: some people get so used to the happiness they give and receive that it’s hard to let go. Move forward at your own pace.
I look at her. I said that a while ago, but I haven’t done anything to move on. She doesn’t seem upset. I nod and step out into the garden. It’s well-kept, though not by my hands. She planted so many kinds of flowers when we moved in, but she didn’t tend to them for long, so that became my job. They were beautiful.
I sit on the grass and stare at what’s in front of me. I know there’s something there, but I can’t see it.
I don’t notice the hours passing, and by dusk, my brother comes to ask me to come inside. We eat dinner, and then they leave.
I go back up to our workspace. I sit in front of the new yet old typewriter, trying to clean it. I’ll write letter by letter so I don’t make mistakes. How should I start the story? Everything you told me? What we lived through? I’ll only write beautiful things about you… I’ve got it… the first time our paths crossed. If I’d known how important you’d become to me, I wouldn’t have let you slip away back then, and the time we spent together would’ve been twice as long.
I’m sorry I don’t have the power to relive that yesterday.