Bridge To Nowhere

“And sometimes…things just happen.”

Looking at the status makes me feel weak. I wanted to say something…anything to let the world know that I’m hurting. Everything sucks and my world is different. That is all I can manage— a poor attempt at a cryptic message.

Seven likes aren’t bad though.

#

She’s gone.

A quick awkward talk full of tears, laughs, and more tears ended with her breaking up with me. The door slams shut, and I sander to my room, one slow step at a time. Each foot fall fills me with dread, an emotion I was trying to brace for. With each step my face winces, each a little bit harder as I try to understand if this really happened, but no one is here to confirm. Just me, in my apartment— alone.

In my room, I wipe my face of tears, snot, and sweat, but my glasses get in my way. I try to move them, but they get caught in my hair, pulling at the root. I still try to wipe the wetness away, but the glasses press hard against my face, poking my swollen eyes so much, I throw them off.

They slam into my nightstand. The left lens pops out the frame.

I feel stupid. I feel…crippled. I feel something else, but it doesn’t make sense, not that everything right now fits any logical description, but it bubbles inside of me. It weakens my legs, and I drop to the floor. My eyes burn and I can’t see. Darkness hides my shame as I crouch next to my queen- sized bed, groveling on the floor. The unknown grows, bubbling more and more until it bursts.

I bellow by my bed. My rage that ravages me.

I pound the floor, forcing out the pain, screaming to sullen the hurt, but nothing works. I wade in my tears, without any solace of where my life is going. I want to be back in NJ. I want to be with my friends. I want to be anywhere but here, on the carpet in my empty bedroom. The one that she should be in.

I look for something to make me feel better. I look for books, distractions, communication, but I settle for my phone.

I settle for Facebook.

#

The sun singes my shoulders, the only bit of me that truly burns. Everything else feels so nice, the water, the laughing, the sense of society that I belong to in this moment- the belief that I belong is what brings all this together. Her smile helps too.

She looks over after splashing her friend. We hang at her friend’s apartment, playing in the pool of the complex. It’s new and nice and looks like people are starting to fill out the apartments throughout. Her friend is happy here as far I can tell, and I can’t imagine an invite like this happening if she wasn’t. The apartment is nice— I can imagine us living in a similar place, after a bit obviously…or maybe right away. I lose my sense of time over these few months, feeling like it has been much longer.

She splashes me, bringing me back. The cool water chills us on the hot summer day. I splash back and we play more games. I can’t imagine what it’s like to leave this pool, leave this day.

#

“You okay, dawg?”

I explain to that I will be, but just not right now. Everything comes up, sentence after sentence with little jokes in between, the kind that are tailored to the friend you’re venting to. The stories change as you share with each different friend, colleague, or family member. I can imagine is the way a stand up comic tells two different jokes: the one in Missouri, and the one is Miami.

“You’ll be fine.”

And I will be, but it doesn’t feel true. That’s the reality of a break-up, emotions unleashed, comparing being single to that of a car accident, a loved one dying, or getting fired from a job. It doesn’t matter how ridiculous I sound; I understand what’s going on. I’m clean and concise in my explanation when he asked me how it went down.

I don’t know what happened.

#

Mexican food is wonderful.

The whole experience has been on point. The ride over we each complained about work, but in an endearing way; the way two people decompress by explaining their day, lightening the other person’s worries. There was laughing and smiling until we finally got to the restaurant and ate delicious food. We filled up on nachos, but the ones made with a care, the ones that you’re forced to pay for as an appetizer; not the amount of care to label them as handmade and created with the best ingredients, but enough to say created with quality ingredients.

We learn about each other, random things like how much she likes elephants and space and what she wants to with her life; something with her psychology degree. I explain to her that I want to use my Theater major, and it excites her, telling me about the high school she went to and how she could have been a mime. There’s more, but I can’t focus on but just watching her, with the scene painted with the melody of a giant wooden bass, paired with an acoustic guitar, and two men singing about something. I don’t speak Spanish.

 I feel like I understand everything about her.

#

Sunday left a void in my chest. It stayed for weeks. Hunger leaves my body, giving up. Each day is normal: the commute, the colleagues, the friends, the work, the hobbies, the conversations.

People are getting homes, modifying their houses, having kids, talking about their kids, figuring which schools are worth going to, or if their home is good enough, or if the area is worthy enough for them to remain there. They blur, and soon I’m confused.

Wait, do they have kids? I thought they rented. They just bought house and mentioned how they didn’t have to modify anything. They just did their bathroom tile; they don’t need to do it again. Wait, I thought he was single. Aren’t they together? Didn’t I just do this project last week?

I stop looking for answers. All of this is just a blurb. It doesn’t matter. Just a moment— moments that don’t matter.

I want to leave, but I can only afford to stay.

#

She’s going to love this.

I only had a month to prepare something for her birthday, but I know I could do something, especially since she wouldn’t be expecting it. I wrote down all kinds of ideas. Getting something expensive would make me look crazy, so it must be super creative.

I crowdsource some ideas, and even let her in on some decisions, of course, without her knowing about it. A question, “Real or fake?” helped me decide what book to get, along with an idol of a porcelain elephant and a sketch kit. I covered her interests, passions, with a knick-knack that would only be a reminder of me. I even topped it off with a hand-written card.

But what do I put all this in?

“Hey, do people like gift baskets?”

The question confuses my co-workers, but they are intrigued. Soon they bounce ideas off of each other, trying to figure out if using a bow would be too much, or where I can get the basket from without breaking the bank, and if wrapping it up would worth it. I divulged that I’ve never done anything like this before, and they both volunteer to help. Later that day, we all assemble the gift in a few minutes.

She doesn’t really respond.

She looks at it for a while and I wait for anything. A thank you, a smile, a hug— any sign of life. In the moment, I didn’t get anything, but later she told me she was speechless. She’s never gotten a gift like that. She accepted it and we went about our day, but I knew that she liked it.

I would never forget that feeling.

#

I wake up at around 3:30am. I can’t go back to sleep. Lately, I’ve been eager to get to work, which is a wonderful outlook on mornings, except I hate every single element of my job. I stare at the ceiling until 3:35am, then I decide to something. I write an email.

The grief turned into questions, and the questions lead to a plea. I wanted to know why all of this happened. The void never left, and I despaired it would never leave. I know I would start eating again but that void convinced me that I wouldn’t.  I should know why all this is happened.

It’s too long to respond back to, and she probably wouldn’t read it all. I finish up paragraph number five and wonder why I’m doing this. Will I really get these answers? I’m being honest about everything in here. She can give me two sentences confirming, denying, or admitting to any of this. If I’m a piece of shit, just nod and I can move on. Getting back together is a folly; I don’t want to ask for her to give me another chance. She made her decision. I can’t make her love me, but can’t she just tell me how she feels?

I send it. It’s the action gives me the biggest answer. I just want to be better, better than this, better in the next relationship. She can help, or she won’t. I tried. I’m tired of wondering why. I can’t wait for answers anymore.

#

I’m open with music.

I’m open but I know what I like, but then again, in a moment like this, I feel like...I should expand my taste. A lot of the reason is because she’s here, and very convincing. Country music has always been distant to me, but it’s growing on me, like how she is. She sings along, and I don’t know the words, but I follow her. She brings her lips to me, and soon, I can’t hear her anymore, but the feeling consumes the rest of my senses, to the point that all I can feel is her warmth. It’s everywhere.

Warmth turns to excitement, and her room is the only place in the world. The music returns to my ears, I feel the name of artist…like it’s almost a memory. I can almost see the face, and the tune sounds familiar, and I almost ask about it until she looks up at me. I return to her secluded room, back into her.

I never find out if it’s Dolly Parton or not.

#

Her text illuminates my phone. I stare until my screen turns off, then I wake it up to stare at it more. I read the text a few more times until I understand what it says.

I’m sorry.

I think she means it…I haven’t talked to her in years, but does it matter? All those unanswered questions— if I got them, I’d probably be in the same place anyway. She ignored those pleads, she left me be…how long has she waited to send this text?

It doesn’t matter. This text doesn’t matter, she doesn’t matter, those 3 shorts months don’t matter, neither does all the gifts, the trips, the late nights, the sex, the way she makes me feel, the anger she left me with—

“Honey, you okay?”

I look over, remembering where I am. We’re eating seafood in a local fast food restaurant. I got the chicken kabob instead of the lamb, and I regret it. She watches me, sipping on a strawberry milkshake. I knew I should have ordered one too.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

She smiles and kisses my forehead before heading to the bathroom. I look at my phone again, the text glowing in front of me. I think of all the vile things I want to say, letting her know what she did to me, and how she needs to get over herself.

I feel silly as I forgive her.