Blink once. Blink twice. I wish it were all my blood pouring out instead of empty love—an empty love so loud it’s deafening. Silently yearning for that one last hug, one last touch of the fingertips, one last brush of the lips. I wait for the blaring alarm of life to soothe the loud silence echoing in me every day.
Not a second goes by without me thinking about you. I try so hard to deny your last words to me. The pain has only amplified over time, even though I’ve spent all this time waiting to feel otherwise. My words fail to bring justice to the gaping hole you left in me. In an effort to painstakingly mend it every day, I blissfully ignore it. That ignorance is what has kept me from writing to you for this long.
I abhor this version of myself that craves your scarring words and deceitful actions—for the jarring desolation you make me feel every day, the excessive amount of ignorance I uselessly muster, the desperation I feel every time I relive a past memory in my head, the way you made me your project. But why is it only you who can fix me?
Three years of pouring my love into you, giving you my promises, constant forgiveness, and bettering myself for you now feels like a fever dream. Though I’ll never admit it aloud, I still await those fever dreams in hopes of reliving just an ounce of how you made me feel.
These thoughts seep into the cracks of my aching heart, often when I least expect them—mid-blink, mid-breath, mid-aisle—turning the most ordinary moments of my life into a stage for nightmares. Sometimes, those nightmares, born from memory, collide with reality. I imagine the cliché version would go something like this:
The mist from the spray used to keep the produce section fresh would hit me. I would continue looking for the spinach as if the mist brought no reaction out of me. And there you would be. With your alluring deep brown eyes, lopsided smile, high cheekbones, and average height, you would catch my eye—the same way you did when we were fourteen. I would be so drawn to your presence that I’d fail to notice the mini you standing just a few steps away.
Deep down, I would know it was your kid, but I wouldn’t dare make the assumption that you’d found another. Partly because it would be a poor conclusion to jump to, and partly because I’d want to spare myself the gut-wrenching pain. How could you have betrayed me like that? I still wait for you.
Remembering how reluctant you were to start conversations, I’d paste a smile on my face and ask you how you were. You’d respond with the same boyish charm I somehow managed to find in you when we were fourteen. To keep it cool, you’d give the same response you’d offer a cashier making obligatory small talk. I’d counter your “good” with a simple nod and smile. You’d mirror the question, still being the courteous person I once fell in love with.
The little boy a few steps away would run to you and ask if he could get something. You’d reply, “Yes, bud.” And there it is—the same kindness in your eyes I once knew so well. The same loving, lopsided smile. I always wondered if it was your imperfections that made me find home in you.
Even though I’d already guessed who the little boy was from his bouncy walk, I would still ask if he was yours. And you’d immediately respond with an enthusiastic “yes.” I’d recognize the same proud spark in your eyes that once appeared when you looked at me. I’d offer a compliment about your son while watching him run toward the candy aisle across from us, filled with awe.
To ease the awkwardness, you’d return the question and ask if I had any. I’d answer “no,” satisfied with my reply, knowing I’d follow it with the story of my journey—how I was now a first-year resident doctor with little time for much else. You’d give me the look you gave me when we were fourteen and say, “So you made it.”
I would give you a real smile, one last time, and wish you goodnight. But just before stepping away, I’d make sure to catch a glimpse of the small, protruding freckle in your left iris—the one that mirrored mine.
Author’s Note:
My personal experiences were the inspiration for this piece. This piece is a reflection of my journey and growth I am currently seeking by expressing my final words on paper. I hope that readers can draw a sense of belonging from the writing because of the cliched nature of the work but with a personal touch.
