by Anonymous

December 25th

I stay in my room, not sleeping, not eating, barely moving. My lips only opening to breathe; I’ve forgotten the sound of my voice. I look along the cracks in the walls, the shadows of moving cars cast along the dusty carpet. My knees against my chest and my frail hands that hold them, a position my body has long overgrown. My phone resting on the table refuses to ring, as if it is an animal playing dead. It is said a man does not die when he stops breathing or stops moving, but once he is forgotten. If I was anything at all to them, they would have come by now. I wait until nightfall to leave my apartment, prowling like the rats or monsters. Sometimes I walk all night. Whatever I need isn’t out there.

The reliable atmosphere of the dark doesn’t belong to me tonight. The humans seize the city with their festivities and their celebrations, preying on any emotion left unturned by those too intoxicated to remember tomorrow is coming. I sweep through bar after bar until a large man puts his arm around my shoulder, pushing a jug into my chest. I let out an ugly yelp, but by the time I try to turn him down, everybody is in anticipation. They’re looking at me. I keep repeating that line as I put my lips to the drink. I feel their eyes draw to me as I keep drinking and drinking, not wanting to lose this indescribable feeling. The cold pavement presses against my chin, the world scraping, spinning.

December 26th

I felt my head sting as I woke up with yesterday’s clothes on, in a bed not my own. The room was warm, littered with plants, posters, and other decorations. I looked out the window to see a woman leaning over the balcony. The fumes of her cigarette and her dull brown hair were pulled by the breeze as the blue hue of daybreak was cast on the sides of buildings. Her thin figure felt as if I was looking at the back of a small cat, ready to run away and disappear. I leaned on the railing next to her while she watched runners, newspaper delivery boys, and people coming home from their jobs amidst the dew that layered on them like the surface of water. Not a single word was spoken. Her eyes were trained on the roads, her mind everywhere but here.

“Thank you for saving me last night,” I said, catching her attention. She gave a simple nod and returned, still uninterested. So, we stood there, watching. “Could I take you to breakfast? As thanks for yesterday,” I asked, unable to bear the silence. Her head whipped around and looked at me as if she finally noticed I was there, elated at the idea of food.

January 7th

We kept in touch and began to unmask the layers of my eyes. Our kindred relationship revealed my hand, coming too familiar with the lines of my face and the curves of my smile. But that only made me feel the chill of being naked. Recounting how the last few months had been, life without anyone but the voice of my apparent insecurity. How I longed for someone to come back into my life, but as she described it, I was too afraid to let that happen. The thought of reaching out to be reminded of my loneliness was too daunting of a task.

On the contrary, she remained guarded. I never saw her with anyone, talking to anyone. She was always alone, but her solitude was different from mine. The conformity in her actions lied in her deep-rooted independence and flowed seamlessly within herself. Distance wedged between connection, not mistaking the difference between autonomy and isolation. Staying never too long, like the floor beneath her friends’ tread was of hot coals, heated by indifference and disparity. The distance between us would never be closed, I had already given too much of myself. The uncertainty of our relationship stemmed from the imbalance of wind caught in our sails. The more I gave, the more I would be pushed. And the more I yearned for her to stay within reach. I wondered about the destinations I would have seen without her gentle encouragement to sustain the journey, if the destination nor journey were to exist at all.

January 25th

The window submerged my room underwater, dying my skin the color of the sky. It was never
more blue than it was that day. My chest tightened, forcing the unsettling feelings within
me to well up in my trembling lips. The tears that should have rolled down my face pooled around me with a sorrowful aura. But nothing did flow from my eyes. Her absence left a gaping hole, its looming presence pulling me into itself. I was prepared for this, it was nothing new, yet somehow this feeling was unprecedented. The validation from hundreds of people throughout my life was incomparable to what I desired from her. There was no one and nothing to blame but myself. No part of me had lived inside her, or at least whatever part of me that did, she had killed off. No sign of her was left in this city, already filling in the position she left behind, everywhere but here.

March 3rd

I walk along the edges of sidewalks, balconies, I prefer stairwells with no guards, rooftops without a fence. I feel the wind from passing cars while I wander streets of which I do not know the name. I drift through the market as vendors wave me over, their voices filling the atmosphere of a not-yet bustling square. I’m startled by a group of children that run by, chasing a ball fading in color. The wind prickles my face, the sound of trucks, the smell of last night’s rain. The world bares itself with immense clarity as if guiding me to an answer. The sun’s rays shine over the frosted rooftops, the morning dew forming as if to shroud my sight. Suddenly, I hear her voice, her laugh. I start to run, as far as I can to get away from that memory. I kept running, running, running. Until there was nothing left but the cold silence of the hollow city. Just as it was that morning.