It was cold. Freezing in fact. The entire city was shut down by virtue of ice and snow. I opted to work from home.
Then I opted to not work from home.
I couldn’t concentrate anyway. I needed to see her. Talk to her. Hold her.
I sat quietly, TV off, no music permeating my little bungalow.
I still felt numb, dead inside. Alone. This was love, and it didn’t consist of fireworks so much as bombs, constantly dropping.
I sighed and smoked the next link in a chain of cigarettes. The world seemed as gray as it looked, overcast and cold, and I couldn’t help but wonder if every choice I’d made to this point was the wrong one. You’d think I’d be in a slightly better frame of mind if I had made at least one good one in all that time.
She made me feel desperate. For the first time in a long time, if ever, I allowed myself to fall in love. I took everything I had in this world, and cast it all aside for her.
But then the bombs were dropped, and suddenly I began to feel foolish. I was scared. Of the road ahead, and the trail I left behind. I wasn’t prepared to have myself as a roommate.
So I sat and mourned my life, all the while trying to will her back into it.
I probably should have let the story end there, her final words still ringing in my head like tinnitus.
But this was love, and I was its prisoner.
I would have done what I always do; start drinking, but, the cupboards were bare, and there was no way in hell I was leaving the house for anything.
Then I got a text.