Time Heals
A cut scene from my novel.
I spend the remainder of the week in my bed, under the sheets where we used to spend most of our time. I let my phone die two days ago, not caring if I talk to anybody. I lay on my back staring up at the ceiling, but all I think about is the time you pointed out the blue paint blob in the corner. I roll to face the wall, and I remember the times you pushed me up against it.
“This is not me,” I repeat into my pillow but it’s no use. Every time I try to dream it away, I am awakened to the thought of you. The absence that is you.
Somewhere into the second week, I can’t take it anymore. The constant reminders of you on every surface of this room. I pull myself up and out into the hall. It’s late, the hallway empty. I walk down the stairs and out into the corridor. I pull my arms tight around my body as a breeze ruffles its way into my hoodie.
I stand motionless for a while, clinging to myself until my legs find movement again. I walk down the sidewalk and out towards the parking lot, the opposite direction of your dorm. I don’t see a soul until I pass the library, a security guard leaning against the wall, his chin on his chest. There’s a warm hum coming from his throat. I keep walking until I’m on the other side of campus, my eyes finding the sky when I reach the middle of the next corridor. Your words fill…
