2 am | a story

here’s a really sad story im sorry

2 am.

dark coffee filters through his mug and heats his hands. he doesn’t feel the warmth. 

sandy eyes and rumpled clothes. he doesn’t care what he looks like; no one will see him at this hour.

his phone screen coruscates the white walls of his kitchen. it’s silent. no more early hour messages. no more ‘good morning’ texts or rambled debates on the purpose of life through the screen. 

he takes a gulping swallow of black coffee and drains the rest in the sink. he’s not thirsty.

he’s empty.

so empty he can’t even describe the feeling. 

he misses her.

so much he can feel it cramping in his bones and aching in his forehead.

he doesn’t know how to fix it. he hates the terrifying feeling of helplessness. he felt that in the hospital too, when she was slipping through the cracks in his fingers— the same cracks her hands were supposed to fill. they don’t anymore. he couldn’t do anything.

he was desperate then.

he’s just numb now.

but it hurts.

he’s scared of the pain.

of not knowing how to continue.

of not wanting to continue.

he’s never been a quitter—he finished the 100 meter run in grade school with a twisted ankle and never once complained—but now he just doesn’t see the point of going on.

his mug slams onto the counter as he places two palms on the granite. black coffee pools around the mug and drips down the sides. he stares out the window, the city lights flickering.

silently, he turns.

forgetting a sweater, his keys, and the coffee stain spreading through his white shirt to his skin, he grabs a skateboard and his knapsack from the hall and opens his apartment door.

the city is not silent at night, not even at this hour.

it’s just muted, the bright colours and sounds are dulled.

his sneakers balance on his board as he drifts down the street, winding himself around imaginary people.

there’s only one place open at this time of night.

he’s already had a coffee, he doesn’t want another.

but that hardly matters.

he needs to be out.

to be breathing in fresh air.

he needs to snap himself into the realization that there’s a world outside of him that continues to live, and he needs to be a part of that life for now.

he wants to, even though he doesn’t know how.

the bell over the door rings as he steps inside the shop.

only one barista is serving tonight. she glances up as he enters, smiling a too-bright smile.

he ignores her, slamming his skateboard into his hand and weaving his way to the back of the room.

there are coffee rings on his table. a sugar packet is opened and half-empty, spilling granulated crystals everywhere. he sweeps it aside with a hand and drags himself into a chair.

long legs, spilling from the booth.

trembling fingers, reaching for his bag and dropping the contents before him.

wet eyes, scanning the blank page of his sketchbook that he’s set out.

pen twirling in his hand, unsure and pulling away.

he hasn’t drawn anything that wasn’t for her.

he hasn’t drawn anything since she’s left.

he flips through previous sketches and swallows thickly.

portraits—some of her, some of friends, some of strangers he glimpsed on the street.

scribbles—plants, animals, skylines and buildings.

the ache returns—did it ever leave?

tears are spilling—were they there before?

the pencil shakes in his fingers—he’s not cold?

he pushes all sense of feeling away, wishing now for a coffee to warm his skin.

but he’s not talking to anyone tonight.

that’s not why he’s here.

the lead skims the air, hovering, outlining in his mind.

it drops, hitting the paper and making a small pinprick on the white.

he drags it across, both pencil and paper resisting his touch.

he’s never had this difficulty drawing before.

he ignores that thought, too.

no use focusing, it’ll only slow him down.

the lead has made a line.

it’s dark and he can’t get rid of it.

he can’t find his eraser.

so he continues, using the scratch and blending it into something else.

he’s drawing again.

it’s hard.

his hands don’t want to, neither does his mind.

but he’s doing it.

the timid lines have blossomed, growing into firm streaks and furrows. his shaking fingers have stilled, gripping the wood less tightly than before. it’s going fast, almost too fast. he can hardly see the lines he’s creating, he doesn’t fully know what it looks like, all together.

he moves places on the paper; first starting there and making a line, then shifting halfway down the page and sketching another shape, then streaking up again and connecting all the scattered lines.

he puts it together, like puzzle pieces, to form a picture.

he doesn’t look at it.

he doesn’t want to see what he’s done.

he knows what he’s drawn, but he can’t look.

not yet.

it will hurt him too much.

it will hurt him if it doesn’t look like her, for that will mean that his memory is fading and he can’t remember and he just needs to hold on but it’s slipping away and he’s scared. so scared.

scared that it will look like her, too. because that will remind of the times they would sit here, in this booth, and she would smile and ask him to draw. he would look up and ask if she would model for him. she would laugh. bite her lip and nod. and he would draw, and it would be perfect, and she would breath a smile and watch his fingers moving over the page.

he doesn’t want to remember that tonight.

but something's forcing the image into his consciousness, pushing through the wall he’s set in place.

he can see her, almost as if she’s right in front of him. she’s laughing, dark hair swirling around her face as her lips smile over the rim of her mug.

“draw someone,” she begs.

he pretends to mull it over, raising an eyebrow. “but who will model for me?”

she pulls a face, posing dramatically in her chair.

“i will,” she laughs, her face breaking into a grin.

and he does.

fingers pushing his chair away,

hands balling into fists and slamming down on the table.

feet picking him up and punching out the door.

eyes spilling and blindly following the street, light blurring and mixing together in his vision.

he left it behind.

the drawing.

he left her behind too, in his mind.

he doesn’t care.

he’s memorized his way home, and soon he’s back.

the door was left open, and he slams it behind him.

slams his fists onto his bedroom door and forcing it open.

slams his body onto his bed.

slams the pillow over his ears.

slams the memories from his mind.

"get out of my head!" he screams at her. “leave me alone!”

she won’t.

she tugs, pulling at the corners of his mind.

dragging him back down to the hospital, to his kitchen, to the coffee shop, to every place they went together.

he curls into a ball, his body shaking.

tears stream down his face and into the cracks of his lips.

he pounds his pillow, yelling out his pain and the aching in his heart.

it doesn’t take it away, but it tires him out.

he falls asleep, still shuddering with tears and cold.

~soleil