Home in a Cloudy Sky

“Haven’t you had enough?”

The white paneling of the kitchen wall stood, unmoving, unwavering, but I swear I could see the lines between each wooden plank shifting. Enough? “What do you mean?”

There was a frustrated sigh at the other end of the line. I curled my toes tightly, leaning forward in my chair. “When are you going to come home?”

“This is my home.” My hand burned with the urge to fling my phone at the glass door, and I clenched my fist tightly around it. We don’t do that. I felt something rising in my throat, imagining her response – the scoff, the tone, the anger, the disbelief – and I hung up. The phone found its way – gently, calmly – to the round kitchen table, and my feet found their way to the cold living room floor.

This is where it happened. My mind blurred and buzzed as I walked closer. Hands that looked like mine reached forward, touching the rough grey fabric of the throw pillows, brushing along the couch cushions, and seconds later, I could feel prickling where friction might’ve been. Come home? The room capsized. My fingers found the ridges in the fabric of the pillows, and my nails traced the seams. This is my home. This is my couch. I crawled onto the couch, still cradling the pillow. The room was dark, and yet my eyes found their way to the wall I knew was green, the same green that I chose. The same green that looked too swampy, too frog-like, when it was wet, but dried to the perfect spring shade.

My eyes twisted. My vision followed. It all blurred. Warm, wet tears trailed down my cheek, down my neck, seeping into my hair and the pillow beneath my head. Home. I had a pajama shirt lying around somewhere with the words “Home Is Where My Cat Is” on it, and it always felt right before I met him. My cat felt like my heart, my world, my everything – and then, when he entered my life, everything was different. My world was different. My heart was different.

I started to feel home in his warmth when he pulled me into his embrace. I could feel it in his passion when he kissed me, when his lips trailed down my neck. I could feel it in the way he held me at night, his fingers brushing over my scalp, lulling me to sleep. It was addicting, mesmerizing, consuming – and above all, it was comfortable.

And now?

Laying on this couch?

I forced my way back to my feet, and my stomach twisted. I moved my hands to wipe the tears from my face and neck. I walked to the bathroom, turned on the light, and stood before myself. Unbreakable eye contact with a person I did not recognize. Her eyes were red, heavy, and swollen. Her cheeks were sunken with deep lines framing her mouth, the sort of lines she looked far too young to be carrying. I felt sad for her. She looked too young to look so worn out.

“You’re doing this to yourself,” a voice said. I saw her lips moving, and her voice sounded alien. “You did this to yourself.” My ears rang. “What are you even doing here?”

I stuck a finger against the mirror, pointing it directly at the reflection, and I considered the question. My eyes closed, and when they opened again, they opened three thousand miles away, looking directly into eyes that had since become my home.

“I missed you so much,” he whispered. His fingers lifted my chin, and his soft lips found mine. My body naturally curled into him, pulling him closer in bed and wrapping my leg around his waist. His hand caressed my neck softly, moving down my shoulder and to my waist, pulling me deeper into his warmth. My thumbs brushed his soft cheeks. I smelled his cologne, and it felt like a third glass of wine after dinner.

“I can’t wait to be with you all the time,” I said, pausing the kissing to look into his eyes again.

“Me neither,” he said. His nose nuzzled mine, and I felt him exhale through it as he smiled. “This time, you’re coming on the plane back with me.”

“This time,” I promised. I wrapped my leg around him tighter and kissed him again, intensifying the haze.

And then it faded, and I recognized the grey of the airport before I recognized that I was being hugged. I could see him standing in front of me – standing behind the person hugging me, looking away - and I pulled away to see their face.

“Text me when you get through security,” she said. Her eyes were watery. Her voice was steady.

“Okay,” I said. My eyes found the check-in desk, then moved to the monitors for flight information. “Thanks for dropping us off.”

“I’ll wait in the parking lot until I hear from you in case anything’s wrong.”

“Thank you.” I looked at her. My lips pulled into a tight smile, and my feet shuffled in place. There was a clear obligation here to say more, and for some reason, I didn’t know what more I was meant to say. “I’ll see you soon.”

“I’ll visit,” she said, and she turned to hug him. “Take care of her, okay?”

He returned the hug. “I will.”

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. “Bye, mom.” I started walking, and then, in an instant, we were sitting at the gate. Our gate. The seats were grey and dull, like the rest of the building, and my eyes followed the pattern on them.

“Is it harder than you expected?” he asked, squeezing my hand.

“Is what?” I asked, turning to meet his gaze.

He smiled, and his other hand reached over to hold mine. His eyes were a shade of grey, but never dull. They were like the blue-tinged sky on the most mesmerising cloudy day you’ve ever seen. “Leaving the only place you’ve ever lived? Leaving your family?”

My eyes broke contact with his and wandered to the waiting area. So many people here, getting on the same flight as us, traveling from and to the same exact places that we are. A man was sitting beside an older woman. A woman was sitting alone, on her laptop. A group of men were chatting amongst themselves. What was I feeling?

“You know, every time I’ve been to this airport, it’s been to pick you up or drop you off,” I said.

“I know.”

“Every time I know I’m going to pick you up, the night before, I can’t sleep. I’m so excited, knowing you’re on your way to the airport, knowing you’re checking in, knowing you’re on the flight. I can’t stop checking the status of the flight.” His fingers brushed against my hand. “And every time I know I have to drop you off here…” I shook my head. “Well, I’m going with you this time, and I can still feel the dread I felt then. Like the whole world is stopping, and somehow I’m the only one that’s noticing.”

He leaned his head against mine. “But you’re coming with me this time.”

I closed my eyes, and I could feel whispers of the haze breathing on my neck. “I’m coming with you this time, and I feel like I’m never going to be away from you ever again. It feels like nothing else matters.”

“But you’re not going to miss your family?”

“You are my family.”

I blinked, and again, I saw myself. I recognized her now. My finger dropped from the mirror. When was the last time I had felt that haze? That intensity? I could feel intensity now, as I stepped into the living room and turned on the light. I felt the intensity of the nothingness down to my bones as I stared at the couch, the same couch where he sat as he crushed the sanctity of our relationship over and over, night after night. The same couch where he fled to at night, when he left me sleeping alone in our bed, where he video chatted and texted and sent pictures and flirted and –

“Haven’t you had enough?” It was my own voice this time, cracking, breaking, asking the question, pushing away the thoughts, begging for an answer from myself. “Enough of the lies? Enough of the promises he’s never going to keep? Enough of crying? Of the world coming apart? Of being unloved?” I felt my knees buckle. There was a haze tonight, but it wasn’t the same haze as it was three thousand miles away, in bed or at the airport. “Why can’t you just leave?”

I didn’t need to respond to myself. I could hear the answer, far away, like my reflection back in the bathroom was still standing there. “Where would you go?” she said. “There’s nowhere to go when everything you’ve ever wanted is here.”

“What I wanted doesn’t exist,” I whispered. I put my head down on the floor and laid there. My stomach – my mind – they twisted, they turned, I could feel myself bending. My hands pulled at my hair, the pressure built in my head, and I curled tighter into myself. He’s not who he said he was. He promised me. How could he be faking it all? How could it all have been fake? Everything he said to me? It couldn’t have been all lies. It couldn’t be. It can’t be. He was so sad. He’s so sorry for all of this. He’s sick, it’s an illness. Mental illness isn’t rational. People who love each other support each other through everything. I felt my shoulders slump, and my fingers loosened their grip. It’s not his fault. He’s suffering. He’s so sad. He’s all alone. I should be helping him. I shouldn’t be down here all by myself. I –

My hands found their way to my phone – when did that get in my pocket again? – and opened the unread messages.

I’m so sorry.

I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

I love you so much.

You mean everything to me.

I promise I’ll do better.

My fingers hovered over the screen. My body stiffened. My eyes stared, rereading the messages over and over until my vision blurred. Do I have it in me to go through this one more time? I asked myself.

Behind me, the reflection whispered back, “You don’t have it in you to do anything else.” And we both knew she was right.