Upon entering an empty room, what do you see? Sunlight? Moonlight?
I see memories, cast aside by time and human decision making. I feel nostalgic wondering what life would have been like had we stayed together, had things turned out a little bit differently, had we grown up on the same advice.
It’s a pain that stops and starts. It doesn’t ever seem to last for long, but then it reappears out of nowhere, takes over my feelings and completely overthrows everything else I’m doing. I could be waiting in line for a sandwich at Subway, or sitting on the futon in my (new but old) room, and then suddenly it all comes back to me. Our whole conversation on Saturday, every word we spoke, every apology I made and every instance of regret possible. Every interaction we had weeks before, when everything seemed so normal and alright and fine. I remember when we had our first falling out, and she came to me afterwards and apologized and said that this apartment, this place in Stamford, that’s home. Not with family, but there. She said it was home because we had built it ourselves, out of nothing, and it belonged to us. I guess that’s not so true anymore, but when she spoke it for the first time, I believed her. I really did. It does still feel like home to me, and nothing about this new place will ever feel right again. Not after having a taste of what it’s like to live the way we did together.
Even though the room is empty, it feels like home to me. Nothing about it will ever be the same. I half-heartedly wished that she would feel the way I did during this week of absence; I wished she would feel alone, insecure, out of touch, and without the same companionship we had depended on all this time.