Empty Hands

The first thing he noticed about her was her hands. The delicacy of them, the lines drawing creases across her palms with their worn histories and stories. He remembers sitting across from her for the first time, and how her two gold bracelets clinked gently as she smoothed her dress over her lap when she sat down. She had reached over the table and grasped his hand in hers firmly, offering a smile dripping in sweet gold that lit up her eyes. Despite her small frame, she had gripped his hand with a confidence that seemed to bleed through her skin and into his veins. He had never met her, never laid eyes on her before, and yet the connection was that of a centuries-long love.

When he dropped her off at her doorstep later, deep into the silent hours of that night, he kissed her. Once on the cheek, and once on the chilled skin of her knuckles. He repeated this action on every date that followed their first.

He became addicted to her. Addicted to her beauty and grace. How she was so determined to fill every crevice in his life with her laughter. How every second of his day ticked around her smile. How she floated through every room of their house. How she carried herself with a wonderfully stubborn certainty, and held his hands in hers whenever she wanted. The way she held her heart in her glowing palms and offered herself to him. She would feel him, caress him, reach for him, and he would melt for her. He would reach for her, and she would melt for him. Until one day, she didn't.

He wished to God he had seen the signs earlier. Maybe then he wouldn’t have to pretend that she still floated through their house. He wished he could have addressed her broken smile with the chips at the edges. The only proof that she had ever thrived in her bubble of bruising confidence, were the glossed-over photos dripping dust from their place on the walls. He remembers pulling a photo down, a photo that she used to gawk and marvel at, and tilting it in her direction. He pressed a smile on his face, and waited for her giddy response to their happiness captured in a well loved frame. He waited until his smile slipped from his face, and the picture sunk to his lap. Finally, a small tight-lipped grin drew across her mouth, as if someone were lifting the corners of her mouth with thread. It never reached her eyes, and he withdrew back to the hallway filled with memories he wished he could recognize.

Now, he could only watch as she slipped in and out of herself. He sat in the shadows and waited, waited for her to crawl back into her old self and hold his hand again. She didn’t touch him anymore. He remembered when he realized that his skin couldn’t recall the pressure of her fingers on his wrists, or the warmth of her palms against his cheeks.

He had taken her out to their balcony. The one that overlooked their backyard and sometimes, when the wind carried the clouds on its broad back, they could see the lights of the city bleeding through the fog. She was almost as in love with that balcony as he was with her. As he led her through the glass doors and stepped into the cool air, he noticed how the plants she had scattered over the railing turned into weeping statues. Without her, they had turned to stone. The two had leaned against the railing, squinting against the setting sun and shadows cast against the grass below them. After a few moments where the only sound he could hear was the blood rushing in his head, he turned to her still figure. She avoided his eyes, as she had been for weeks.

“Do you know what I’m here for?” He had asked her. He let her silence swallow up his question before he answered it himself.

“I’m here to be the better half of you. To help you be the best person you can be. That’s what all boyfriends do, isn’t it? Help their partners? Keep them from losing themselves?”

She sighed into the open air.

“I don’t think that’s true really. I don’t think you’ve ever needed as much help as I did, and God, you helped me so much,” his voice cracked then. “I’ve never had anyone pry their way into my life so hard and look so beautiful doing it. And now I’m losing you.”

Small wisps of light still tangled in her hair, the sun’s warmth still clinging to their clothes. Dashes of shimmering gold kissed her knuckles, white from clenching the railing. She still looked so cold.

“I know you’ve always been the one to help me, but don’t forget yourself. Let me help you, let me be there for you like I’m supposed to. I’d like to believe that I can give you a fraction of the happiness you’ve given me,” he slid closer to her. “Just, let me hold you.”

His hand glided over the railing and ghosted over hers. He could almost taste the skin against his lips again, but then it was gone. She pulled her hand from his reach, and by the time he had spun around, she had disappeared.

Now he can’t remember the last time she felt him, caressed him, reached for him. The plants on their balcony stood as lifeless as the bottle of antidepressants on her side of the bathroom cabinet. She existed as ghosts do, phasing through rooms and floors and his touch, screaming silently so no one could hear. Not even him. He didn’t know she was screaming until he found her in a surprisingly warm October morning. 

It shouldn’t have been that warm in October, he should have known something was wrong when even the sun was awake at 7 am. He found her in the bathroom, the antidepressant bottle on the floor alongside so many others. He couldn’t tell the amount, only the dusty orange spots scattered next to her limp fingers. He failed to see through the clouding tears in his eyes, but he understood the woman on his phone asking if she was breathing, and the pounding of his heart beneath his ribs when he realized she was, but barely. He waited with her hand pressed to his mouth, wet kisses pressed to the skin that had grown far too cold for such a warm person.

His time at the hospital was filled with empty visits and so many questions. Hurried questions asked in blunt words that bruised his heart by people in stiff uniforms. What time did you find her? Was she responsive? How long did you wait for the ambulance? What pills did she take? Questions he asked them. Were you able to revive her? Is she going to be okay? When will she be awake? Questions he asked her closed eyes as her chest rose and fell under the sheets. He grasped for her hand under the sheet too, but the tangle of IVs and drips guarded her from his touch. What can I do to help you?  Why wouldn’t you tell me you hurt this much? He asked her the same questions in the echo of his own mind on the quiet drive home. Why did you do this to yourself? Why did you do this to me? He never asked those questions out loud, those were the questions he kept in the spaces of his mind not occupied with her hands.

He spoke to her for the first time the following morning.

“Do you need anything?” He surprised himself with the rasp in his voice, his throat tight from disuse.

It took a moment for her voice to rise from beneath the still mound beneath the blankets. “No.”

He paused, the longing in his chest forcing his mouth to open. “Are you sure?”

The dull exhaustion seeping from her broken voice rang in his ears. “Yes, I’m just tired.”

“Do you want me to stay here with you?”

“No, just let me sleep, please.” The mound shifted further away from him, and he left.

He asked her everyday after that, if he could just be near her, even from a distance. He wanted to see the corners of her eyes crinkle again. Let her pull him into her arms and sway back and forth to music only she could hear. He wanted to see the same glorious stubbornness he had fallen in love with. He wanted to feel her hand pressed to his smiling lips again. He asked her for his love back everyday, and finally received the answer he prayed for.

“Do you need anything?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah baby, just tired.”

“Do you… Is it okay if I stay with you?”

“Stay.”

Warmth blossomed in his chest and raced through his body to the tips of his fingers. His feet carried him to her side, where he sat tentatively on the edge of the bed and drew his legs in close. He didn’t venture any closer, for fear that she would force him away and withdraw back into herself. She glanced at him through her eyelashes for the briefest moment before shutting them again, but the tug in his heart only grew stronger. He wished he could feel her, caress her, reach for her again, but he knew he couldn’t. He didn’t mind. Her hand lay by her face, the fingers curled up at the perfect tilt to slide his fingers through and lock their hands together. He wouldn’t, but he could picture it perfectly. 

The next day, the balcony welcomed them with a vibrance they hadn’t seen in a long time. With the most gentle and tender care he could muster, he had begun returning the plants to their former beauty. They stood meekly in their beds of dirt, surrounding the two proudly. She gazed around at them, and his heart fluttered as he caught the small ghost of a smile lingering on her lips.

They assumed their rehearsed positions, leaned against the railing with a perfectly calculated gap between their shivering bodies. He glanced at her, an instinctive smile spreading across his face. In the dim light of early morning, he could easily draw her smile from his memory. He only wished he could see it now, against her pale skin and frosty air.

Her foot tapped lightly against the railing, and he focused on the rhythmic hum of the metal. His mind clouded over, his only thought was to feel her again. To feel her, caress her, reach for her. Just once. It might never be this peaceful again.

He drew a breath, and stretched his arm out to where her palm rested against the smooth metal railing. His eyes clenched shut as his hand drifted closer to hers. He could feel the dull warmth radiating from her skin. Finally, his little finger brushed gently over hers, and warmth bloomed across his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. He shifted his hand, linking his little finger with hers delicately. His entire bloodstream seemed to freeze as even the wind stopped howling to give them a moment. A moment of peace. A moment of hesitation, of pulsing apprehension. A short moment where the world fell quiet and waited for them.

Her finger disappeared from his grasp, instead dipping below his to press their palms together. His breath caught in his throat. She eased her fingers between his, interlocking their hands and squeezing once. He knew exactly what that simple squeeze meant, it was something beautiful and warm.

She reached for him, and he melted for her.