Since You Left

I woke up in the morning feeling heavy on my chest, heavy with all my emotions. I remembered your last words. When I removed the curtains from the window, I saw the new day. But for me, time had stopped long ago. I got a call from a friend—a friend whom I left at half-eaten dinner last night. I picked up the call and promised to meet him again tonight. 

I lay down on the bed again. Thinking about what life has become after you’d left. I felt your hand on my shoulder, asking whether I wanted tea or coffee. I replied, “Whatever you are having.”, with a bit of surprise. I saw your body moving swiftly with the music. I didn't remember when I turned on the music. I don't even know when I last heard this old '70s music. I have always thought of you as music. When you left, the music from my soul took its leave forever. I saw my old wooden book rack, which you’d built for me. Mirror on the wall, an old date on the calendar. I've forgotten to change the date again. I promise myself every night to change it but forget every morning. Or maybe I don't want it to change either. Once my best friend visited, she changed it to a new date, which is now stuck to the date she had visited. You were singing at the top of your lungs. We danced, your hands holding mine. I started to hear my own laughter. Then yours. It did become one.

I heard my cell phone ringing. I tried to ignore it; it had been long since I'd laughed. Once my hand reached out to the phone, I realised I was still lying on my bed. No one was in the kitchen, and the unchanged date was staring back at me.