In the darkest hour of the night, I lie amidst the white-blue sheets you bought for me, thinking of your discerning eyes wandering over rows and rows of packaged bedding, trying to decide which colors would please me the most.
A recording of soft piano and violin plays through my speakers and washes over me as I remember the time you stayed the night in my apartment, after the doctor’s visit. We sat on the couch, munching on hummus and watching the news. And we talked about love and relationships and how to lead a happier, simpler life. You had tidied up my place while I was at school, and the apartment was clean in a way only you could achieve.
I wanted you to stay with me; I imagined you staying the week with me after each visit. We’d stay up late talking and during the day, I’d take you to my favorite city spots, to show you the Chicago I had fallen for, to give you a taste of the love I felt for this city.
I’m lying in bed alone though. Wishes and regrets seeping into wet puddles on my pillows. I want to call you to tell you that I’m happy now, that I finally feel like things might be okay. But I can’t and things won’t ever really be okay, will they. And my piercing heartbreak mixes with my faltering happiness, presses against my chest, breaks through, and becomes the atmosphere that surrounds me. A bittersweet mixture of darkness, sound, and the pangs that memories -from both the past and future- bring.