I can almost envision her, right there, straightened up, with her hands grasping a book. She could always manage to let everything float away, at least for that moment, like even the most difficult burdens could sail beneath our feet. And then, after her, suddenly, everything is getting heavier. This silence irks me, maybe, just maybe, if I heard her humming I’d feel better. It’s the humming of this melody that she did, the very hum that helped us face our biggest problems.
I can feel the bitter autumn air dig into my fingers, as I’m slouched down on this bench, this very bench where we used to spend hours talking about everything. The wind hums a steady melody through the trembling branches above me, a haunting echo filling the park. I pulled my jacket closer to myself, but not even the fabrics of the material could protect me from how I feel inside.
The array of trees, the same trees that beamed with golden colours, are now bare. In a lot of ways, the trees and I are a lot alike. Both stripped of colour, life, feelings, personality. The distant hum of the city, cars roaring, pedestrians shrieking, honks beeping furiously, all suddenly felt muted. As if the world itself had lost interest in speaking to me, as if she had told everybody about our falling-out. Tension finally left my foot, and it settled more heavily against the ground. The sound of leaves crunching and realization.
The sound of distant humming makes me jerk up, and for a moment, just a moment, my heart finally feels at peace. At least, I hope it’s her, I hope she’s back, trying to rewind all our memories, trying to weave them back into my heart. But as usual, it’s my mind playing tricks on me. The squirrel scurried behind the bush, acorns in hand. Really? I really thought she would come back. Never have I thought that one place would hold so many memories. I can feel the air thickening, I can feel every conversation and moment engulfing me. Her voice is still lingering in the air, her laughter still fills my soul up, even if she’s not there. My finger traces the familiar pattern on the bench, “X+Z” our initials, the same initials she carved out the day I confessed.
Why did I come back? I really thought it could help bear the pain, but it just widened the scar in my heart. She was a pen; I was a pencil, easily erased from her life. I thought I could find comfort in the situation, find a scapegoat in our falling-out. But all I found was me, being in a bigger mess than last time. My eyelids shut, trying to find peace with the situation, letting the bitter autumn wind blow in my face, wondering if I’ll ever be able to sit here without feeling like I’m drowning in what I lost.