In the Absence of Warmth

Every day when I awake, the sun still rises. Its rays peek through the slants of my blinds and when I finally peel my eyes open, the room is bathed in a familiar gold. Slivers of light fall on my face, like they always do, and when I roll over to his side of the bed, I learn to expect the empty sheets.

           I breathe in the remnants of him – the scent of his favourite cologne, smelling of cloying cinnamon, permeates my lungs with every inhale. He’s no longer there, but the sun-warmed sheets mimic the lingering warmth of his body heat, so I stay. I bundle myself under the covers, clinging to his side of the bed, until the sun rises higher, is eclipsed by the buildings, and the sheets turn cold.

           These days, it becomes harder to recall his warmth. I know it’s better to forget, but this acute feeling of loss he’s carved out from within me has me floundering and lost. While my mind understands, my body cannot, and small, learned habits still make me curl up to his side, only to mourn his absence upon feeling empty sheets.

           Between the two of us, I was always the first to wake up. Sometimes I would wake up even earlier than the sun, waiting for our room to turn from dark to gold, just so I could watch how golden sunlight would drape itself over his sleeping form.

           He was always shy. Whenever I said anything too romantic, he would hide his furiously blushing face and sag to the floor in embarrassment. He’d mumble out weak protests all the while, but we both knew that he was secretly pleased. That was why, in the quiet, early mornings, I took my time to write all kinds of cheesy, romantic shit that I had wanted to say but never got to voice out to him. In a washable orange marker, I traced the words carefully onto his neck, his scapulae, and down along the curve of his spine. Eventually, the constant, tickling sensation would wake him. It would take him a while, but once he figured out what I was doing, he’d bury his face into the pillow. I adored the way the tips of his ears flushed red. I knew that he knew exactly what kind of love letters I had been writing onto his back, but he thankfully never stopped me. It was something we used to both indulge in: saying “I love you”s without actually verbalizing the phrase.

           I don’t know what caused our breakup, and I don’t know what I could have done to fix it even if I had known.

           Maybe the problem was that we’ve been together for too long; with nothing left to discover in each other, it’s probably inevitable that things grew stale. After all, seven years is a long time. We had met in high school, started dating since senior prom, and then lived together even after we graduated university and found jobs. He was the first person I ever came out to. He was my first love, my first boyfriend.

        It’s times like this, when I’m alone, that I become aware of just how heavy a bleeding heart is. My mind, too, wanders: was he ever content with what we were? Did he ever love me back as much as I did him? And when he felt differently, because he had to have to break up with me, when did it start?

        The quieter, more guilty part of myself also asks: why was I so oblivious to it?

        One sunny afternoon, I had bought a small, glass bird as an ornament for our Christmas tree. Our apartment didn’t allow pets, but I knew he had wanted a canary, so I thought this would be the perfect gift for him. I remembered how excited I was to see the smile it would bring to his face. I raced up the stairs, anticipating the way his brown eyes would sparkle behind his glasses and the shy smile that would bloom across his face.

           Instead, when I got home, the glass canary was to be left in its package on the counter, untouched, as he pulled me aside.

I don’t recall much, to be honest. But I remembered him, fidgeting, unable to calm down no matter how much I soothed him. And when he finally mustered the courage to speak his mind, I really, really wished he hadn’t.

           “Look, Danny. It’s . . . I love you, have loved you for the past seven years, but it’s time we part ways. Okay? . . . end it. You’re too familiar . . . dependent on each other and I don’t . . . I can’t grow . . . always with you . . . let’s end this.”

          Blood had rushed up to my ears, drowning out his voice; I don’t remember it well, but I remember enough. I remember the way he held my gaze, eyes looking determined and unregretful. The way he hadn’t stuttered through any of the words, as if he had been rehearsing those lines for months. I remember the way my stomach had swooped and fallen and the way I stood there in disbelief.

           The me in hindsight finds the situation self-deprecatingly hilarious, because in the handful of times he’d ever said “love” to me without wilting to the floor in embarrassment, he had used it in a breakup instead of a passionate love declaration.

           I remember not being able to say anything back. I could do nothing but stare at him, my mind racing and throat dry. I could only nod once, dumbly, to show him that I had understood.

           But I didn’t understand. And I still don’t. I had stood there in a daze, watching him pack everything away, finishing stuffing the rest of his belongings into his boxes. And as he moved out, he sawed away at the parts of my heart I had made a home for him in, too.

           I lost my lover of seven years and best friend of nine with a muttered farewell and a door slammed shut in my face. And it’s been a week since then, but I still don’t know how to stem the bleeding, jagged holes he left behind in me. How should I cure the festering, aching pain he left in me?

           I still don’t know how to deal with the empty apartment. When I roam the halls, I notice just how empty the place is. He had packed so thoroughly that it was like he never lived here in the first place. It’s as if by erasing all traces of himself, it would prompt me to move on faster from him.

Many things hurt after his farewell. It hurt to realize he had blocked my number and all my social media accounts, and it hurts even more to realize he selfishly took away the things that were mine – my favourite shirt of his that I always wore to sleep with, the mug he didn’t like but I loved, the cap we both loved so much that we had to fight over it before reluctantly agreeing to share it.

           And the thing is, the more days I spend alone without him, the angrier my grief becomes. On the third day, when I finally saw the glass canary sitting untouched in its package, a fit of rage overtook me. I shattered it on the floor, watching with grim satisfaction as something so beautiful and whole broke into a dozen pieces.

           It wasn’t until yesterday, had I realized he hadn’t taken everything of his with him. When I was on the balls of my feet, blindly groping the top shelf of the cabinet for a mug, I knocked one down in my struggle. It smashed, its pieces splintering on top of the marble counters loudly. Halfway through cursing my own clumsiness and shorter-than-average height, I realized exactly which mug I had broken.

           It was the handcrafted, cream-white porcelain mug – a mug I had bought for him on our first trip abroad to Paris. His favourite mug. The mug I had noticed him eying while we were sightseeing, but never ended up buying because of that ridiculous price tag, so I had snuck back to buy it for him. Upon presenting it to him with a flourish, he was ecstatic and vowed to use it every day.

           And suddenly, I was furious. I was, and still am, absolutely livid that even though he’s gone, and the final thing he let me have of him is smashed and as good as gone, the memories of him still linger. That I’m here, alone, in an apartment too big for one, and left to deal with all this grief and rejection by myself. My hand had seized onto a shard, and I threw it down onto the floor, cracking the shard into three.

           I had laughed and laughed until halfway through it turned into a sob. “Like fuck you’re using it every day. If you took everything else away, couldn’t you have had the decency to at least take my gift with you?” I swallowed harshly, pressing the backs of my hands to my eyes to deter the well of hot tears from forming. “Liar. Fucking liar. Do your promises mean shit now that you’ve broken up with me?”

           Today, in the soft light of the early morning, I get up. I walk over to the kitchen in an empty apartment and stand beside the splintered mess with sore eyes and a broom.

           And as I lose myself in the methodical process of sweeping, I admit to myself that I do miss him a lot. As I gather the mess on the counter into the dustpan, I let myself admit that I really do still love him. That I hadn’t wanted us to break up. That I’m upset he never got to hear my side before he decided to cut me entirely out of his life. And as I crouch down to sweep up the last few pieces and tip the mess into the trash can, I let myself feel the grief and anger still crackling within me, forming over me like an ill-fitted second skin.

           “I still love you, you fucker,” I whisper. “Even if you went and ripped my heart out like that.” I stare emptily at the broken white pieces lying in the black bag. “But you’re gone, now, and I have to,” I take in a deep breath and close the lid. “I have to accept that.”

           I lean on the counter. I watch the sun climb higher into the sky and wait until dawn becomes day. I walk to my bedroom, but I stop when I reach his side of the bed. In silence, I observe the marks of where I had previously lain on the sheets. I turn away to face my window. Outside, the sky is a brilliant shade of blue.

           With a determined inhale, I pull the sheets off my bed. I take off the pillow covers and blanket covers, too, for good measure. I bundle them together, grasping the cold fabric into my chest. It still smells faintly of him, and my stomach churns at what I’m about to do, but I force out a steady exhale and move forward.

           Today feels like a laundry kind of day.

           I stride to the living room, tossing it all into the washing machine. Absentmindedly, I measure out the proper amount of detergent, dump it all in, and then close the lid shut with a loud bang.

           My fingers hesitate at the last second. I accept it with a sigh before pressing the start button with more force than needed. The machine chirps and the cycle begins.

           Oh.

           My feet stumble forward before I’m thinking clearly. I rush to my bedroom, recklessly pulling and closing drawers until I find it – the orange marker.

           If this is a goodbye, then I have to make it a final one.

           I bring it to the trashcan, watching as the thin, orange plastic drops on top of the shattered, white porcelain. I stare at the mess for a while, before I decide to tie up the black bag and rest it on the floor. I throw on my coat, grab my keys and the bag, before exiting out the door.

           It’s a sunny day outside. I toss the trash out, hearing a satisfying clunk as it falls into the bin. I lift my head up. The sky is a clear, brilliant blue, and the sun is shining. I soak in its warm rays, breathe in the cool air, and close my eyes.

           I miss him. I miss him so much, but these days, I’m getting used to waking up with the sun’s warmth instead.

And right now, it’s enough for me.