post 7 : cry

I dropped the phone without hanging it up and sat there, shocked. That hadn’t turned out to be the distraction I had hoped for at all. I stared at the wall, my eyes glazed over not allowing myself to feel it. An hour went by like that and then in a gush, I lost it, I lost it, crawling into the foetal position in the middle of my bed, tears streaming down my face. 

I stayed there for three days. Occasionally I would hear footsteps stop outside my door, the breathing told me they were lingering; but they never knocked. They never checked if I was alright. I guess there was no need; they knew. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I’d lost track of day and night, but I didn’t suppose that mattered. I pushed my eyes tight together, a vain attempt at making the pain go away. When it didn’t ; I fed on it, reliving every conversation we’d had, each time he had brushed his hand across my skin, each time he’d kissed my face, all the times he had danced with me and sung to me. I burned, squeezing the sheets until my hands ached as much as my heart. I screamed into my pillow over and over and over. Finally, exhausted, I fell asleep; a sweet, sweet relief.

Dehydrated and red faced, I re-joined the world. I said nothing, only taking glasses of water into my room, empty glasses out to refill; and then back again. I spent the next few days in and out of sleep, watching old episodes of Grey’s Anatomy, which made me feel significantly worse. I had forgotten about the school work that I was in the middle of before he had called, but didn’t bother looking at it when I remembered. I skipped class and didn’t answer phone calls. I sat on the shower floor for an hour each day, letting the hot water burn my skin, my tangled hair covering my face.

It had been a week and I hadn’t heard from him. I wondered if he was feeling anything, or if he was numb like he’d said. I wondered if he was thinking about me at all, wondering how I was, perhaps. He’d left a pair of shorts at my house from when he’d stayed the night. I pushed them to the back of my cupboard so I didn’t have to look at them. Then, I quickly grabbed them out again. I didn’t know where to put myself. When people spoke, I couldn’t respond. I didn’t have it in me. I couldn’t even force my mouth from its dry neutral state to curve into a slight smile. Even my dog was avoiding me, probably not wanting to catch a sad disposition.