It’s a cold place, the one I wish to return to. It’s cold, covered with plastic, and layered with enough dust to kill. I don’t dare to take my slippers off, as I’ve been taught to, when I enter through the door, and there are clear imprints on the ground where I’ve stepped.
One part of me wants to run down for the brooms and clean the entire room until it’s as bright as the day you left it.
The other part of me yearns to move on from that same day.
I pull the sheet off one of the sofas, and drop on the soft fabric covering. Despite the musty smell and the awkward feel of the plastic pressing into one of my legs, I lean back, and I remember the last time we’d sat on this together.
That day had been a cold day too, and you’d oh-so-politely offered to ‘warm me up’, which meant that you’d thrown your arms around me and pinned me to the sofa. I can still remember the way your legs had tangled with mine, and the way your coat felt when you’d pulled it around me soon after; playful, boyish smile fading from your lips. I distinctly remember the way I’d brushed your short hair aside and asked you what was wrong.
And that was when you told me.
I can remember the hurt, pain, and utter betrayal I felt after that. When I stand up, I can see the marks and dents I’d left in the walls that night; throwing anything in arms’ reach. Now, when I look back, all that anger was for naught, because I also remember crying the very next day and hugging you … pleading for you to not leave.
Not that you had an actual ticket for where you were going.
A few more days, and I was alone, just like I am now.
It seems almost like a fantasy now, a half-remembered dream, whenever I try to look back and see your smile. It’s been five years since then, and there’s not a day that passes that I don’t fail to live up to your last request. I haven’t gotten rid of all our memories together, and I most certainly haven’t moved on.
How can I when the place where our souls can meet is still here?