Maybe we never forget

It’s for all the right reasons. Although my old apartment was the light at the end of the tunnel, the light was a candle, the wax dripping into an ocean full of monsters. Those monsters grabbed me by my ankles and pulled me into the deepest depths of depression. But the candle is now put out, and the wax floated on the water, cold and surrounding me, though the ripples caused in the water by my body broke their uniform pattern around me. My family, friends, and everyone I trusted. But if I meant anything, why was I a secret? I decided that the drama was not worth it for a bunch of liars. I packed my bags, though I hadn’t planned on leaving. I couldn't take it anymore. Either this or goodbye world, and I know I have more to live for.

I parked my car and took out two suitcases. I placed them on the floor and let the wheels on the bottom of the suitcases do their job. A man was waiting for the elevator. He wore a black zip-up jacket with a fur brim and white embroidery of stars and swivels across the chest with black sweatpants that didn’t cinch at the ankles. His hair was tousled and swept like curtains in a Victorian castle. Hypothetically, if I ran my hands through his hair it would feel like a field of dandelions at dusk. No, that’s wrong. Dandelions release seeds, and this man doesn’t have a speck of dandruff in his warm blonde hair. Maybe…a field of golden poppies under sunlight. Moles peppered his face and arms perfectly, and his nose was straight. He looked perfect, even though he looked disheveled. If he were a homeless man, I would pick him up and take him to my apartment.

“How come I haven’t seen you around here?” He turned his head to look down at me. He was approximately 5 inches taller than me. If I just got a hug from this man, it would solve all of my problems, but start a new one.

“I’m moving here. I just got here, so don’t mind my…raggedy attire.” I looked down at my dark blue flare jeans, dark blue leather Mary Janes, and a dark blue button-up, long-sleeved shirt accentuating my hourglass figure. Time was ticking, and the sand was falling, but at that moment, it felt like it had stopped.

“If you think that is raggedy, turn your attention to me. You look gorgeous.” I have to admit I am an old-fashioned, hopeless romantic. I romanticize over holding hands and being called “beautiful” over “hot”. But being called gorgeous made my heart flutter.

I laughed, “Well, I see you’re a charmer. Thank you…” I trailed my sentence, giving him a chance to say his name.

He smiled. Oh my God, he has dimples and a sincere smirk. The one where you can tell is genuine. “Blake. And you, mysterious new neighbor?” He motioned with his hand to me and left it there. Even his name is magnetic. Not to mention his voice. Intoxicating. Something I would want to get drunk on. His voice would be a song on repeat and in every single one of my playlists. The one that I can rely on. Support, humor, pleasure.

“Marina,” I took his hand and shook it. They were soft, but purple veins ran through them like intersections and freeways. I always thought that hands were a reflection of the self. There were no scars, but bitten nails. He probably hasn’t felt pain that leaves scars, but bruises. The veins on his hand represent strength and protection. Protection for others, from others, for himself, or from himself. He is anxious that the pain will happen. It's almost like he can feel it coming; he just doesn't know when.

“I love it. You don’t hear a lot of Marinas nowadays. What drew you to this building?” He dropped my hand. My skin felt like it was searing, aching for his touch again.

I thought for a moment. In reality, it was the only one I could afford, but that’s a boring reply. It’s not enticing at all. “It’s pet friendly. I want a dog. And a cat. And a rabbit. Maybe a hamster...Wait, I take that back. I heard hamsters die of the weirdest things.” I rambled about it, and he laughed. It was music to my ears. It was heartfelt. Honest.

“I heard that they can climb,” he added.

“You’re joking.”

“I wish. Why did I change your mind?”

“No, but you’re really close,” we both laughed.

“Well, if you did, I don’t think I can keep my dog around you. Maybe she will bark, and your cute hamster will get a heart attack.” He casually said.

“YOU HAVE A DOG?” Every dog breed is going through my mind. Doberman? Golden retriever? Lab? German Shepherd?

“Yep. A Belgian Laekenois…it took me a while to remember that.” Blake took his time pronouncing the words, wanting to get it right. None of my guesses, though.

“I have to meet your dog. I don’t care about the suitcases or anything. Please!” I clasped my hands, holding them out.

He laughed, “What did you think you were gonna do if the elevator came? Go straight to your apartment? You have to meet Juno first. She’s the sweetest.”

“Juno…that’s a nice name…Like the movie with Elliot Page...speaking of the elevator, where is it? Not that I want it to come anytime soon to abandon this conversation because this is the most I have voluntarily talked to a person and enjoyed it in a long time.”

“Let it be late. I’m having fun. Which apartment are you in?” He glided his tongue over his pearly white teeth.

“214, and you?”

“You’re joking.” He clasped his hand over his mouth. I nodded, and he said, “I’m in 216!”

“This day can’t get better!” I clasped my hands with his and we hopped excitedly. Then we let go and giggled about it. Then he let go of my hands and I felt heartburn warm my chest. It spread like a wildfire, burned and ached my lungs. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Woah, you good? Is it heartburn?” I nodded. I heard shuffling. He then tapped my shoulder, so I opened my eyes. His hand was out, holding a thermos.

“Peppermint tea. Drink it, it will help.” I took it and unscrewed the lid. The tea slipped through my lips, gliding down my throat and all the way down to my chest.

“Thanks. How did you know?” I screwed the lid back on and passed the thermos back to him.

“Peppermint is my favorite. It helps with my anxiety. I just…took a wild guess it would help you too.” His eyes met mine. They were dark brown like chicory root tea. Dark, bitter, tempting.

“Good guess. It’s an anxiety thing…the heartburn.”

“You too? The overthinking?”

“Yep. And chest pain. So really fun stuff to add onto depression.” It was in that moment when I realized that I had trauma-dumped on a man (a really cute and nice man) whom I had just met. God, why did I say that? He will see “weirdo” written on my forehead in Sharpie.

He didn’t care, though. His eyes just fixed on me more, and he laughed quietly. “Looks like you’re having fun. Can I crash your party?

“Not at all. It was reaching the end anyway after a perpetual couple of months.”

“Wouldn’t want to leave you in ‘perpetual’ depression. But I don’t mind your pessimism either.”

“Well, what can I say? I know I’m young, but my mind is well beyond my years.” The elevator finally came. A man and woman came out, the man adjusting his belt and the woman reapplying her lipstick. His hand was on her neck, guiding her out of the elevator and going out to the garage. Blake and I got in the elevator, waiting for the doors to close as we laughed. I didn’t know that elevators had music, or at least mainstream music with copyright probabilities, but this one did. “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak played faintly in the background.

“You look like this song, you know?” He said abruptly.

“...what?” I have to admit, the song sounded beautiful, but the lyrics did not add up. The whole song was about unrequited love.

“It’s tragic, yet beautiful. Soft, vulnerable. Reminds me of you. Not to mention the melody with Isaak’s rich and raw voice. It’s perfect.” He didn’t look at me. Just looked forward, avoided eye contact.

“That was one of the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to me. It’s strange, isn’t it? How a song can feel like the truth we’re too scared to say out loud. If you see that in me… I think you might know me better than I thought.” I turned to look at him and found him whipping his head to look at me again. The elevator arrived on the second floor. He gestured with his hand that he would walk out first, but hovered his hand over mine, not touching. He leads the way around the halls, warm beige, deep amber, and faded rose walls, baseboards, and doors. Many rugs say “welcome home,” and leftover Christmas wreaths in February. I got to 214, the door that would open opportunities. My home. By comfort, though I found comfort in someone else.

“Well, here it is. Your apartment. How do you feel?” He dropped his hand to his side and looked at me, waiting for an answer.

“Uhm…I have no idea. It's everything all at once.”

“Yeah, can I feel it all with you?” I was looking at the door, but I turned my head when I heard him say it. His voice, once laced with intoxication, is now familiar. It’s comforting.

“Will you, please?” He nods, holding my hand as I reach into my pocket. I jammed the keys into the lock and twisted it. It clicked and opened. The apartment was empty. It was painted an off-white, and the vinyl floors were warm ivory. No furniture. Empty. I could tell that the apartment could have personality if I help it. Give it a makeover.

“Well, I have to get settled in, I guess.” He lets my hand go. I didn’t even notice that we walked into the middle of the apartment.

“I guess I will leave you to it.” He walked away, and I followed.

“Marina, wait!” I almost closed the door, but I heard him say. “I… thoroughly enjoyed our conversation earlier. I can’t believe I’ve met you, because that moment was the most emotional and happiest that I have felt since the start of the year. Please, don’t feel freaked out, and I’m sorry if it’s blunt, but I am sure that we have met each other in my past life, and you meant something to me. Probably meant the world to me. I see you in my dreams. I see your face in magazines, I think of you in songs. I see flowers in a blithe garden and I think “she would love those peonies or forget-me-nots”. It’s not stalking, in fact, I have not seen you in this life except for today, it's a memory. It’s many memories that created a collage. The collage about you. It’s comfort. I feel at ease with you. It was only, what, 35 minutes that I was with you, and I felt at home. The poetry I wrote was about you. The portraits I painted in gouache were all of you, for fear of losing the memory of your beauty. I know this was too forward, I think I just made a fool of myself, and I should probably go. You probably never want to see me again.” He stopped talking and looked at me the entire time. His eyes darted around, trying to explain every corner of his mind. He walked away, but I couldn’t help it. I lunged and grabbed his wrist.

“If you meant so much to me, why don’t I remember you? I…I can’t remember you. I want to remember you.” Tears bubbled in my eyes, but they didn’t threaten to fall. Not yet.

“Mar-”

“I want to remember you! Blake, I’ve only known you for 35 minutes, but I already feel like I've found the missing puzzle piece in the jigsaw of my heart. I have been alienated and alone my entire life. But you, you make me feel seen.” Tears threatened to fall as Blake looked at them. He broke out of my grasp then pulled me into his warm embrace. My head fit in the corner of his neck, his hand held my waist close to him, as his other hand held my head, nape of neck, and hair.

“Marina, you are worth every second of my time and my life. It would be my honor to remind you every day how much you mean to me. If you let me, and hopefully, I will mean something to you, too.” He rubbed slow circles on my back and spoke softly in my ear. My arms hugged his torso tighter.

I sniffled, then said, “You already mean something to me, Blake. But I-I don’t know how to let someone in. Will you help me? Will you teach me what it feels like to mean something to someone?”

He then guided my head out of his neck to look at his eyes. “I will make sure you feel loved and understood every day, Marina. As long as you’re with me, you will never feel alone.”

“I-I will never take your heart for granted. As long as you are mine, I will do everything I can to love you right.” I couldn’t help but smile, and so did Blake. He pulled me back into his embrace. He was breathing deeply, his chest rising and falling. And that moment itself was perfect. And in that moment, warmth encompassed me. It reached the end of the room, radiating behind my ribs.

And in that moment, a memory flashed. Many memories flashed. Him cupping my face in candlelight, saying, “I will love you until the stars fall from the sky.”

In our past life, we shared an umbrella in the rain while his hand was on the small of my back, guiding me through bustling streets.

In our past life, we danced in moonlight, dressed in a dark blue evening gown and matching blue dress suit. That was when he proposed.

In our past life, I held his frail and wan body while he bled in my arms. He told me, “I will find you again. I promise. I love you, gorgeous.” This was how we separated. I clutched at his jacket. And maybe he knew that I got these glimpses of my past, for he adjusted his grip on me and whispered reassurances in my ear as we stood in the door frame. It’s for all the right reasons. Being with him feels right.