Because She is Here

She is here.

She is jumping over every crack in the sidewalk, cooing at every pigeon, smiling at every passerby. She is laughing at our reflection in the dirty store windows, pulling on my sleeve to try out every new cafe, ogling at the dresses on the mannequins, telling me which ones she would wear to a party, which ones would look good on me.

Not even the rain could stop her. She simply took an umbrella with her, her smile undimmed by the dark city sky. When we'd get home, she'd shoot the water from her umbrella onto me, and I'd laugh and shoot it back.

But now the sky is darker than before. The kind of dark that can't be pierced by the hopeful sun. The clouds don't leak rain over the city, though people wear their raincoats and carry slim black umbrellas by their side regardless.

I am alone on the sidewalk. These images, her laughing and her brightness are trapped only in my thoughts. My hand is cold, though I can't bare to put it inside my pocket. She may not be even be here, but there isn't even a chance she could hold it if it isn't waiting for her.

It would be perfect. I can imagine it, feeling a sensation of warmth as her hand would clasp on to mine from behind. I can imagine being surprised, looking down at my hand before letting my eyes trace their way up to her luminous smile, her beautiful eyes locking into mine.

"Why are you out of the apartment?" I'd say, stunned to see her.

"I wanted to be out with you," she'd reply, fitting in perfectly with this fantasy I've planned for the past month.

Yet, my hand hangs numbly in the air, nothing but wind fitting between my fingers.

I walk into our favorite coffee place, the familiar jingle of the bell filling my ears.

"Morning mam," the barista calls. He gives me a warm smile, waiting patiently as I slowly walk up to the counter.

"Same thing as always, please," I pull my wallet out of my purse, opening it and pausing, as was now tradition, at the picture of us tapped to the inside.

It's only a year old, but it is by far the most beautiful thing I can imagine. It's the two of us, laughing at something dumb while looking at each other. We're twenty-two in the picture, but she still holds a juice box in one hand, the other playfully resting on my shoulder. I have a hand-held rainbow flag in one of mine, my own juice box in the other. We're at a friend's house, sitting on the floor next to the bed, exhausted after our first Pride together in this city.

We kissed after this picture was taken. And she's laughing so hard, her smile unbelievably wide.

"How's she doing?" the barista pulls me out of my memory, his familiar compassion in his voice. We've been going here together for so long, he knows my order my heart. He also knows about the picture, and everything that's happened during the past month.

I pull my card out and hand it to him. "She's still here, at least."

He nods sympathetically, running my card through the reader. He hands it back to me, and tells me that my order will be ready in a few minutes.

I turn to wait at one of the tables pushed up against the window, finding an uncomfortable solace in sitting alone at the two-person table.

I stare out the window, watching as the cars drive by. There is a broken pain in my heart, something that throbs but has been throbbing for too long to really sting. It's like a cut on a scar to me, seeing her everywhere.

Her light is my everything. She is a fire, letting sparks fly all around, igniting everything in her presence with a new spirit. I can see these sparks everywhere, all over the city.

Except, of course, in her.

Everything has changed. She hasn't left the apartment in a week. Even her therapist has begun coming to her. She is drowning in a storm wrought with all the depression and hardship that was thrown at her, lost in a rowboat at sea.

And I can't be the captain of the ship coming to her aid. All I can do is hold her close and pray, clinging to the vain hope that I'll wake up one morning and find my sunshine at my side, her depression gone like a passing storm.

I just want her to be happy.

The barista sets down my order in front of me, a paper bag containing a small hot chocolate, medium black coffee, and two pieces of banana bread, the kind with the shaved almonds pressed lightly onto the top. I don't even check to confirm, I simply thank him and leave the shop.

I know that I only have five blocks to walk to get back to the apartment, back to her. Yet, I also know that this is the part that hurts the most, the five blocks of the city where I can see little bits of her joy everywhere.

Small rainbow stickers dot the poles of many lamp posts, there's a cherry red splotch on the sidewalk where she dropped a bottle of nail polish. The stickers are scratched and the paint is peeling, but they still drill into my head memories, of what she used to be.

I walk past the paint, trying not to look at it. I try not to look at the stickers, I try to not even observe the sidewalk under my feet, I know my feeble heart wants to pretend that she's right there next to me.

I finally reach my building, stepping inside the warm lobby. I can still hear the cars in the street, the faint whispers of the busy city still resting in my ears.

I call the elevator, press the button for Floor 12, and ride up alone. I'm glad, I've grown tired of the strangers I live with asking about the tears in my eyes.

I step out towards our apartment, and fish my keys out of my pocket, slipping them into the door and stepping inside. I kick off my shoes and lock the door behind me, calling out her name.

She doesn't respond, and I walk past the umbrella stand and into the kitchen while still straining my ears. I pull out a plate, and set her piece of banana bread on top, grabbing her coffee out as well.

With both things in hand, I walk into our room, finding her huddled on the armchair in the corner. She stares blankly out the window, not even suggesting that she noticed me.

I set the food on the side table, and kiss her on the forehead. I walk back out of the room, pausing for a moment to look at her in the doorway. Her joy is so far gone, I can't remember the last time I saw it at its brightest.

I return to the kitchen, looking through the window at the street below. It's nothing to me but a painful reminder of what her depression has stolen from her. And I hate it. I hate walking down it, I hate going into the same coffee shop, I hate the city and its concrete reminder of what I haven't seen for so long.

Yet I walk through the city everyday. I always stop at the coffee shop. I still live here.

I'm still clinging to the city. I can't have her, at least not right now, so I cling tightly to the city and can't pry my own hands away.

Because she is here.