Tomorrow, this space will become someone else’s story to tell.

The curtains are down. The apartment is empty. I’m lying under the cupboard in the dark corner where the washing machine used to be.

The last night:

We hid there when you accidentally drank too much on your birthday. You asked me why I would bother, and you wondered if I knew what I was getting myself into (given your history). I told you to not worry: we are away from the world here, and I held you till you were sober.

I’ve always had an infinite fascination with the spaces we inhabit. When I move past the spaces I used to live in, it haunts me. The spaces where meaningful things happened. It feels I can sometimes stretch out my hand, and touch back into time.

Utterly meaningless spaces for most, are intensely meaningful for others. That realisation sometimes creeps in intensely when I travel: when I’m just allowed to be a momentary voyeur. A lighted window at night in Mong Kok. The shop fronts along the streets in Zanzibar. The cozy houses along the railroads in Hungary. Infinite lives and stories that I only get the privilege to imagine. I’m just an asteroid that orbits past, partaking in a momentary dance, and then getting slingshotted away into other stories.

As I’m leaving this apartment, I stare into all its corners and everything floods back to me. This space will always make me remember you and now I’m moving onwards to go flirt with sunsets.

My new view:

The next tenant will arrive soon and they will be none the wiser about how important this dark corner is to only two people. Two out of 7+ billion stories.

I’m not holding back on my thoughts and let it all wash over me like the washing machine that once stood here. You are like a stain. No matter how much I wash, I can’t get rid of you. It’s not a filthy stain, or an unwanted one. It’s a characteristic one. Those kinds of quirks to clothes that people now purposefully add and sell as newly used. I used to hate it, but now it’s just there, and I’ve come to accept its unique flavour.

I’m listening to the music I wrote about you, lyrics derived from the unsent letters in my journal. With the added headiness of the whiskey, I could almost disappear deeper into this cave.

It would’ve been nice, but the reality of the hard tiles on my back kept me from drifting off.

Tomorrow this would just be another space where some guy fell in and out of love. He spent his last moments in it lying under a cupboard, drinking whiskey, and singing falsely to some cheesy lyrics he wrote about a break-up.

Tomorrow, this space will become someone else’s story to tell.