Wednesday, June 7, 2017
Wednesday, May 24, 2017
It will happen one day. A few months might pass: maybe even a year. You will have begun a new job and the sky will be crisp and bright. The promise a new city holds will excite you. A café not far from yours will sell the most delicious croissants, and you’ll stop by at least once a week. And then, in some mundane moment, it will rear its head. Perhaps, you will be making your morning coffee. Maybe you will be making the bed. Or perhaps, sitting at your desk at night, you will spin around in your chair. A deep rumble, then – a violent blast. It will arrive with forceful impact and you won’t be able to do anything but feel it.
It is a vast, empty vacuum that was propelled into creation when you left me. At first you won’t see it: it is too dark. The light pollution from the rest of your new world will drag your eyes elsewhere. But as their exciting lights begin to fade and normalcy sets in, the vacuum will become more apparent. You will find these vacuums scattered throughout your home: in the coffee you pour for one, in the untucked sheets, and in the reading nook in the corner of the room, pristine and unused. This is when you will feel it and it will hurt. Those empty spaces, empty as they are, are full to the brim with the possibility of an alternative life. It is easy to imagine an alternate reality, a millimetre removed, gliding along next to yours. Just out of touch, tantalising and painful as you see the joy that that reality brings. That is when you will regret the every moment we have spent apart.