Like Never Before

A whiff of cigarette smoke swirled into the cold, February air, swirling and dissipating into the midnight fog. Soft snow crunched quietly under a pair of brown boots. The night was dead quiet, and the echoes of the hoot from a faraway owl occasionally pierced the air. The streetlights shone onto the streets and sidewalk like it did every night, little circles of dim, slightly flickering yellow light projected upon the passing man like an old spotlight. With a swift flick of a finger, the cigarette fell to the ground, its last ember dying as it reached the ground, turning crisp snow into slush, left behind as the man trudged on.

The man with the brown boots stopped in front of the doorsteps on the corner of the street. Here, the man thought about her like he always did when he came here. He remembered standing in front of the window outside on this very spot, waiting for the beautiful girl with golden brown curls that bounced with every step, waiting for the girl that turned the corner of the streets with a pep to her walk, waiting for her to lift her head from the ground beneath her feet and meet his soft gaze, waiting for the sweet, sweet smile to envelop her face, and waiting for that hint of a smile creep from deep in his cheekbones and spreading across his entire face, to have that feeling of flowers blossoming inside him. The man now waited for the things he wanted but would not ever come anymore.

By now, the loneliness was a persistent feeling inside him; no longer a pickaxe chipping bits of him away, but a sponge embedded deep within him, draining his spirit, his emotions, leaving him in shreds, helpless and hopeless. He could not stop himself from sighing, wishing, reminiscing, but life did not work that way - he knew he had to move on, somehow. He did what he had to do - with a creak of the old floorboards, the man stepped into the house, brushing off the bits of snow that had stubbornly clung on to what was left of his almost threadbare coat. He did not dare to take it off - it was much too cold, even in the house. He dropped his brown work bag in the corner, like he always did, and sat down on his rickety wooden chair, in front of his rarely used desk, exhausted. As his heavy eyelids started to close and his head started to tilt back, a silver glint on the sill of the window caught his attention. The man squinted at it, first in wonder, then in disbelief. It was the ring! How did it get here? How had he not noticed it before? But there it was, glinting slightly in the bright moonlight from out of the window, the diamond in the middle so bright, delicate. Like her, the man thought. Maybe it was due to shock or exhaustion, or perhaps it was both, but it was not several minutes into staring at the unexpected ring and letting the numbness of everything shake in him until the man let out a frustrated cry of anguish, shuddering into uncontrollable sobs. He let the grief take over him, unable to control it anymore, shrouding him even deeper into misery as more memories of their happy days that he had spent so much time trying to avoid were brought back to him by the ring. Oh, what he would give to see her live again, to live their old life together again, to stop hurting!

Eyes clouded, vision blurred, mind on the edge of bedlam, the man reached at the silver pen with his callused hands on the table, almost as an impulse, although it was something he had not done for so long. Yet... it felt so familiar, and he almost felt comforted. His hand touched the pen, and the cold metal stung his warm fingers as he wrapped his fingers around it in a position long unused. The pen felt smooth between his worn fingers, and the dents from long use rubbed against his skin, as if gripping as tightly into his palm, just as he did to it. It almost felt good. The man gripped the handle of a small drawer next to the table, and the brass grooves of the handle fit perfectly around his fingers, as if comforting him. In the drawer was a stack of white paper. Although the paper was covered in dust, the man did not seem to mind.

Now, with paper on the table and pen in hand, it was all coming to him in a rush - the familiarity of what had so long ago, the feel of the pen cold in his hands, the words tumbling in his head, the emotions inside him rearranging into ideas, phrases, sentences. It was something he had not done after she left - he had thought it would be too hard on his emotions and that it would make him think of her more. Why he had decided to do it now, the man did not know, nor did he want to care. He did what felt right in the moment, and even though he felt completely out of his mind and was a chaotic mess, he knew the moment was right. There was nothing else that could have been done, nothing else that would have helped him but this. It could have been an outlet for his miseries, a place where he could cry his heart out and let out his anguish, lonesomeness, and growing longing, he realized. And now, it really was. Without a further thought, the man pressed the pen onto the paper and wrote what his heart wanted him to. Letters, words, sentences all flowed out of him in waves after being cooped up deep inside him for years, seemingly never stopping, never ending. The pen flew, scratching at the paper furiously. The man wrote like never before.