The opposite of love.

The sea is cold, but I am colder.

I hear the waves crushing on the rocks below, and in my mind I can see the foam hitting the hard grey wall, curving against it, only to disappear back into the endless blue.

I woke up alone again. For a split second I thought that you were there, in my dream you were texting me, and I was eager to text you back. For a moment, a wonderful moment, I think it is real. But then I realize that nothing of it is real, there is no chance you would text me; not before hell freezes over.

I listen to the sound of the waves as I stare at the ceiling, the wooden beams polished to a warm brown. I feel empty, as if I am a cavern for the sea to crash into and then retreat again. Today marks two months since you left.

I put my playlist on shuffle, it chooses Mt. Everest.

“Mt. Everest ain’t got shit on me-”

I almost punch the phone to turn it off, this is comical, this is the last thing I feel like listening to right now. I walk to the window, the sea switching between blue and white. She is angry, I can feel it.

I am also angry. Because I hate you.

The opposite of love isn’t hate, it’s indifference.

Who said that? I can’t remember. I hate you, so that means that I love you still.

I called my sister when you left. She called you names and hurried right over, she entered the house as a red ball of fury, her hair wild. She found me sobbing on the floor like some damsel right out of a Disney movie. Her anger smoothed over, calmed like the sea on a summer day. She held me close and promised she would kill you, to show the volcano hiding under the waves.

I cried more and told her not to. I never know when she is serious; she keeps a set of throwing knives in her house. She laughed, and asked me if I was sure that this was what I wanted.

I don’t know.

The only thing I know is that I hate you.

That’s when she entered our summer house, a bag full of groceries on her hands.

“Are we self-pitying or self-loving today?” she called from the kitchen, letting the water run on the sink.

My voice felt rusty. “Both.”

“I see.”

My eye fell on the photo of us that I forgot to turn around. We were in vacation at the Pacific, I am laughing, and you are looking at me, dark sunglasses covering your face. Your smile is contagious, and I am such a fool.

And now you are free, and I am stuck in this summer house in the middle of winter, having my sister fuss over me as if I am a child. You are free and I am trapped in my hate, a current pushing me under the waves over and over, as I am trying to breathe.

My friends don’t really know. I hadn’t even told them that we were together, and there is so much that I would have to explain before crying about you leaving that I simply do not bother anymore. My sister knows, and that’s enough. And you. And you know of course, but it’s not like you could be of any help, since you put us in this mess yourself.

After all I am an excellent liar. It’s how I was brought up, in a house of secrets, in a circle of lies. I lie to myself all the time. I had made a promise that I would never lie to you and look where this brought us. Turns out you lied all the time.

The sea is cold but I am colder.

I shiver in front of the glass wall, in front of the blue and the angry white.

My sister cooks us breakfast, and then suggests a stroll. It’s not like I have anything better to do with my time, besides sit inside and mop. She tells me to wear my swimsuit and I tell her that she is insane. She only laughs, the same laugh she roared when she said she’d promise to kill you.

I have to stop myself from wearing your coat. It is the only thing you left behind, and it still smells like you. It is big on me, but I like it. It feels like a hug.

Agatha laughs again and tells me to wear it, because she knows that something will change. I ask her why she believes that, and she only replies that a sister always knows.

She asks me to speak of you as we walk, and I do, the waves carrying my words to the open water. She asks me why I love you and I tell her I never really did, love is a strong word after all. Then she asks me why I thought I did. I speak of all your graces and your vices, my voice fluttering with the albatross above. I tell her I feel like screaming, and she tells me to do so. I scream into nothing, startling the schools of fish below.

Our path takes us to the old fishing dock, abandoned for the winter. Agatha asks me of my paintings, asks me why I stopped. I tell her I have nothing to paint anymore. She tells me that I’m wrong.

Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “Think of your brushes. If they build up paint, they are useless. You need to wash them everyday, clean off the grime. Let it flow in the water. The sea has fed with your pain, you voice has sunk in the waves. It is time you finally get clean.” And then she dares me to jump.

I tell her that she is insane. She laughs and shrugs off her coat, leaving her with nothing but her swimsuit, and jumps. With lips turned blue she tells me that the water is wonderful.

Hell be damned. I drop your coat on the ground and jump.

The sea is cold, but I am colder.