11:11

11:11

By TJ DUTY

10:15 PM

My blanket is tucked snugly beneath my chin, yet I still shiver. The mattress feels like it’s swallowing me whole. Above me, the ceiling fan spins lazily, clicking in a maddening rhythm. The room is full, but it feels empty. The dark shields me from the mess—papers spilling from half-closed desk drawers, unwashed laundry tossed in the corner. A half-empty glass of water has sat untouched for four days. I turn onto my side, blankets rustling. I close my eyes and think of you.

10:27

My eyes flicker open, releasing a wave of silent tears. Not the ragged sobs I cried on the bathroom floor the day it happened. That was the same day I stood on the curb beside the gutter, murky rainwater running across my shoes, hands clutched to my chest like I could keep my heart from falling out. You left me standing there. It was too far to walk, so I had to call a cab, and sit in the backseat and make small talk with the driver when the only words in my mind were the last ones you said to me. I wanted to wad them up and toss them out the window.

10:31

The floorboards in the hallway creak. A shadow glides across the wall and disappears. Faintly, I hear my mother’s breathing in the bathroom on the opposite side of the wall. A few seconds tick by, and her frazzled head peeks into the dark void of my room. I shut my eyes closed tightly, yet I can still feel the piercing stare of her eyes. The day it happened she held me so tightly I felt as if I would break, but I didn’t hug back. I was limp, lifeless.

In the past few days, we have rarely spoken. Yesterday she brought my grilled cheese and I picked at it mindlessly, then ate half so I didn’t disappoint her.

I hear her sigh quietly. Seconds later, she’s gone and I’m alone.

10:35

I’m cold, so I reach for your sweatshirt which is discarded somewhere on my unkempt floor. It’s the red one you gave me after we went to the movies that night. It was raining, and you draped it around me to shield me as we sprinted through the puddles to your truck.

I wore it every day after that. I don’t even like red.

I promised my best friend that I had thrown it out, yet that would be like throwing away a chunk of my heart. I’ve considered washing it, maybe folding it up and putting it away. But it still smells just like you- sharp and intense, faintly minty with a hint of gasoline and hate. I used to bury my face in it when I could sleep. Now I just cradle it to my chest, wishing the sleeves would embrace me.

10:39

Two weeks ago, we were here. You sprawled belly-down on the bed, and I sat cross-legged beside you, my knee pressed into your shoulder because I always had to be touching you. A bowl of cereal balanced on my bare thigh. I haven’t eaten cereal since—it gags me. The sugar tastes like you: sickeningly sweet. Under the dim glow of my reading lamp, you asked if I believed in soulmates. I told you there were a million souls on this earth looking for the one that supposedly belonged to them, but somehow I’d already found mine. You laughed and told me there was no such thing.

10:42

Almost my curfew—though I haven’t gone out in days. If I were with you, we’d be parked in your truck outside my house, headlights off but the engine running so I wouldn’t get cold. Your hand on my thigh, my head on your shoulder. We’d be talking about nothing. You’d say you had to go, and I’d beg, “Stay. I still have twelve minutes.”

I never got in trouble for being late. You’d never stay, so I’d go inside early.

10:51

In the street outside my window, a car passes by, beams of headlights sprawling across my wall. In the light they create, I catch a glimpse of my wall, where a framed picture of us hangs reluctantly. It was one of the only ones we had together. You weren’t a picture taker. I practically begged you to smile whenever the camera came out. It’s slightly blurring, and I’m leaning toward the camera, hands flying toward my mouth as I’m hysterically laughing at something you said. Your hand is on my shoulder, and you’re smirking- that stupid half smile that only showed your top row of teeth. My mom took it, right before we went to the school dance. We’re both dressed up, and my dress is the same color as your eyes, a deep, emerald green. I felt pretty that night for the first time in years.

10:57

I swallow the rest of the stale water on my nightstand. My mouth is so dry I barely feel it go down, but it stops at my throat and sits there—just like my love for you. You took it, shoved it back down, left me gasping. A fish out of water.

10:59

I think of all the things that bother me. The unfairness of it. The new girl and her ‘happy one month’ posts, or your mom’s pictures of you at football games, captioning them “proud of my boy”. I used to be proud of you too.

The dreams I have about you, the memories that haunt me. Visions of unkept promises, and me fully believing them. Stupid, desperate, naive.

The fact that I used to believe love was enough, that if you loved someone you stayed. People in old stories say “love conquers all” as if it is the strongest tie on earth.

The fact that maybe love is strong. The fact that maybe we were just weak.

The fact that you don’t miss me.

The fact that I miss you anyway.

11:05

I can’t sleep yet. Six more minutes.

You once told me 11:11 was lucky. “The only time all four numbers are the same,” you said. “Make a wish before it changes.”

Back then, I wished for you.

11:06

That was the minute I realized I’d never hear your voice again.

11:09

Yesterday I saw your truck parked by the football field—same spot as always. I knew you were nearby, probably practicing, chasing the greatness I always said you’d reach.

You used to wish to be better.

I used to wish I was enough for you.

Turns out I wasn’t.

11:10

Anticipation. Tension. Shame.

How silly.

How silly to believe four numbers—four glowing red lines on a clock—could change anything. I shut my eyes. Try to convince myself to sleep. Convince myself it doesn’t matter.

But then…

11:11

I open my eyes. Sit up. Toss the blanket aside. Cross the room to the open window.

I sigh. Cross my fingers over my heart.

I wish you would come back.

11:12

I close my eyes and crawl back into bed. Tuck the blanket under my chin.

I roll onto my side and let sleep take me.

We’ll see in the morning.