Night, flowers, regrets.
A quiet Friday night. I sat on the couch and sent her a text. No reply. I haven’t talked to her in more than a week. I think it’s the first time since we met 7 years ago. Our paths diverge more and more. Our bizarre relationship slowly adapts to the incoming divorce. Slowly making sense. It looks normal. And it’s as sad as it can get. Does she think about me? Does it matter?
I watched the last episode of Carrier. A mandatory moving scene of sailors coming home to meet their families. Two kids run to hug their daddy. A wife launches herself on his arms. And one guy, that single guy, walks by with his bag. Not even attempting to look for a familiar face. Because no one is there. It reminded me of the many times I waited for her at the airport. It made me regret that one day I stopped bringing flowers. Why did I stop?
To you, that one person I’m yet to meet. That person one day I’ll love. I promise you. For the rest of my life. I will bring flowers. I’ll never stop. I promise.
Me: As my dear friend, N, describes perfectly: We first realize our heart is on the floor, we drag it up again, force it back into our hollow chest and learn how to use it to breathe again. Only after we are breathing steadily, off the respirators, do we realize how far we are willing to go to keep it from ever hitting the floor again. We become indestructible…. but in a good way.
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