The narrow convenience store aisles encompassed him and the stacks of strawberry junk food and shrink-wrapped soft porn magazines seemed to be the entirety of the world. Whatever was beyond the flaking walls of the store was meaningless, because the only thing that had ever mattered to him in years was gone. She was gone and that was that. There was nothing to do or say or cry that would reverse the unforgivable. So he cursed God, Buddha, anyone—anyone that would listen to his vicious thoughts.
It was there in that small, musty aisle that a woman awkwardly tried to shuffle past him. She accidentally hit him with her shopping basket and she turned her head halfway to mutter out a quick "sorry" and that was the thing that made him lose it. This woman with beautiful orange hair that perhaps smelled like tangerines was the thing that broke him. In those few seconds he saw that flowing hair and his heart skipped a mile's worth of minutes and he thought "Thank God! It was just a joke!" but he was wrong. That wasn't her and it never would be.
So he staggered and clutched onto a lollipop display rack just to hold himself up and he unsuccessfully tried to choke back tears. Another man awkwardly darted past him and a cashier asked him "Are you okay?" when what he really meant was "Can you fucking leave; you're scaring away customers."
Crying in public? What a loser. Just go home. Jesus, you're scaring the kids.
The thoughts of the uncaring echoed in his head as he ran down the street, keeping his head down. But still the tears fell and he couldn't stop coughing his nose wouldn't stop running.
What a fucking loser.
But as he ran he realized he had nowhere to run to but the worst place—the saddest place—he would ever step foot into. All of a sudden, each step felt like a heart attack and each breath was a smothering reminder of the giant literary metaphor of what he was and she wasn't. It was like the shining sun was a horrible irony and his heart was a shitty symbol that belonged in an 8th grade girl's "first breakup" poetry. To add to the horrible poem that was his life on wide-ruled notebook paper, he stopped at the sight of roses. Because he felt shittier than all the middle school breakups in the world combined and just the sight of red killed him.
He went in the dumb flower shop and pulled out his dumb iPhone and Googled "what the fuck do roses mean" or something like that. Then he bought her 108 white roses—the last flowers he would probably ever buy—and carried them as if they were the love of his life and this was the last time he would ever get to love her. That's how much the weighed. And, ya know, maybe that weight doesn't quite equal the weight of the world, but why should it? Every burden and grief that strikes doesn't way that ridiculously huge amount—some weigh the weight of a galaxy. Because the people around him didn't understand what he was going through and some didn't care, but who gives a shit? Crying wasn't manly or whatever, but, running down that dumb street and seeing those roses made him realize that maybe life really was just a shitty middle school breakup poem, or maybe it was the fucking Game of Thrones. As long as he felt, as long as he knew, that his feelings, no matter how manly or feminine they were, were valid.
So he went to the fucking funeral home: the worst place ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever. Ever.
He cried for the most beautiful, kind, stupid, strong, and Sukonbu-obsessed girl he had ever known and he whispered "Bye, China Girl" and he realized that he meant to buy her some seaweed instead of roses in the first place.