Spring
She dreams that he is standing before her, his hand outstretched, and all she has to is reach out and take it, but her arms are heavy, they weigh like bags of cement, and hang at her sides. She's unable to move. She can only watch as he mouths her name, voice silent, and then she jolts awake.
It's sometime in the morning, early, but the moon is still out, the light from it sneaks in from her window. She swallows and tries to even her breathing. She brushes beads of sweat from her brow. The air is thick and humid, static around her, and she finds it almost suffocating. She lies on her back, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows of a tree branch. It moves in such a way, that it reminds her of poetry.
She recalls her dream, vivid images flash in her mind like tiny bulbs of light going off. She tries to be still, light as air, but her body is wild and needs to move, so she turns over on her side, and half expects to find him there sleeping.
Of course, he's not there, and it leaves her feeling impossibly sad. She draws her knees to her chest, and tries to inhabit as little space as possible.
Minutes seem to pass by slowly, like years of a life, and she waits for it all to end; for everything to just go away. But nothing happens, and she feels the walls start to cave in, the room becomes smaller, it steals away her ability to breathe, she has to get up and open a window.
There's a chill in the air, it causes goose bumps to speck her skin. She rubs her hands over her arms, trying to smudge them away. She takes a seat on the floor, and lays her head along the window still. She's able to breathe here.
The sky is dark and clear, and she can see every star. They're bright and yellow and she wonders if this is where his soul now resides, somewhere out there among the galaxy, just beyond her reach.
Sometimes, on nights like this, she and Vega would stay up for hours and discuss some case they were working on. Their voices would be loud, anxious, as though adrenaline pumped through their veins. She would be sitting on the floor, her back pressed against the wall next to the window. He would be perched on the end of her bed, one leg crossing the other, and they would bounce theories back and worth. One of them would eventually figure out the motive, and they would high-five one another, their eyes sparkling like diamonds.
If she knew that was it, that there would never be another night like that again, she would have summited every detail to memory. What he was wearing. How he smelled. The way he would move his hands as though his words alone couldn't make the point. She would remember everything. How she felt in his presence, as though she was the most important thing in his life.
But people don't think like that. They just think that everything will stay the same. They never look up in a moment, that feels like every other moment in their lives and think, this will all be over soon, that they will never feel this way again, but she knows differently now. It hurts her deep down, beneath her skin, just under her bones where her tissue lies. And, in a moment, she never feels more incomplete.
She imagines that she is blowing away, in the wind, like a dandelion, scattering pieces of herself along fields of long grass. She pictures him lying there, watching as she blows by.
She positions herself across the floor and becomes completely still. Her heart echoes so hard against the floorboards that she thinks her eardrums will burst. She has to close her eyes, for every time she opens them, she sees him perched on the edge of her bed.
XXX
Today, she smiles, and pretends she's happy, when she's not, pretends to be okay, when she's not, pretends she is everything to everyone. But she can tell they see right through her and she grows tired of pretending.
XXX
She arrives home to find Lucas and Manny discussing her in the living room. Their voices are low and they stop talking when she walks in. Her stomach drops, she's not in the mood for an intervention.
She stares at Lucas. He's standing next to her fireplace, wearing an expensive looking suit. He has on a crisp, white button-down shirt that reminds her of clouds. His hair is perfect and combed to the side and she is tempted to reach out and mess it up.
She looks at Manny. He's sitting on the edge of the couch, his elbows propped on his knees, cupping his chin in the palms of his hands. He looks very worried. "Mom," He says, "We need to talk."
And she is a million miles away. They blur so much that she can no longer see them clearly. She tries not to focus; instead she listens for passing cars, for birds chirping, for the sound of children playing. She listens for anything other than the sound of their voices. But still, some of their words break through: something about being depressed, something about needing medication, something about talking to someone.
She tries to recite the alphabet in her head, and doesn't think about how they don't get it. How they don't understand. How she is broken into a million pieces.
She drops her bags, and doesn't say a word as she walks past them, and heads in the direction of her room. She pauses long enough to pull his shirt out from her bottom drawer, then crawls into her bed, under the covers. She feels somehow safe there, like a caterpillar in its cocoon. She smells his shirt, she can still smell him there, and she instantly hugs the fabric, it feels as though he's there with her. Maybe tomorrow will be different, she thinks, as tears begin to sting her eyes.
XXX
She's at work, sitting in a bathroom stall, alone. Her coworkers are being extra nice to her again, and it pisses her off. They treat her delicately as though she is made out of glass and can break at any moment. She doesn't need them; she doesn't even care about them.
She kicks at the door with one of her boots, it unlatches and swings open. She stares at the wall of mirrors and sinks and suddenly she imagines him standing there.
He's wearing the standard attire: suit and tie. He looks like he looked every day, scruffy and interested. He's leaning against one of the sinks; his arms crossed in front of him, staring at her incorrigibly. She wants to say, what? What are you looking at? But she's so happy to see him, that she doesn't say anything. She just sits there and watches him. He says, "Angie, what are you doing?"
She shrugs and gestures her arms in question. "What does it look like I'm doing?"
"It looks like you're hiding." He says, and suddenly he looks sad, as though it was the saddest thing he has ever said.
She nods her head exaggeratedly. "That's exactly what I'm doing." It comes out all matter of fact like, as though it was scientifically proven, like she had the certification to prove its authenticity.
He's quiet for a moment, brows narrowed in consideration, and then he says, "Angie Flynn doesn't hide. The Angie I know isn't scared of anything."
And then he's gone. Just like that. She's alone once again, sitting in a bathroom stall, and she wants to scream at the vacant spot he stood just moments ago. She wants to tell him that the Angie he knew was gone. That she wasn't that person anymore. That she was only that way when she was with him. That she isn't brave anymore. Angie Flynn is scared of everything. Mostly, she is afraid of living without him. But she doesn't say any of it. She just sits there silently and thinks how easy it is for him to be gone, to just leave her behind like some afterthought. Soon she decides to stay in the bathroom for the rest of the day.
