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On September 23rd, my world stopped.

Before that, it had never spun faster; colors had never been so bright; laughter had never been so beautiful; I had never felt more loved.

But on September 23rd, He walked away.

“We’re not the same,” He said.

“You’re so dependant,” He said.

“I can’t be with you,” He said.

“We compliment each other!” I said.

“I need You!” I said.

“I can’t be without You!” I said.

I watched as He walked away; watched as His favourite jacket blended into the golden tones of autumn; watched His feet kick up the exquisite carpet of leaves; watched the wind stir His almost-too-long hair as if someone had just cast a magic spell.

And as I watched, everything changed.

Suddenly, the tones of autumn weren’t golden, like I had thought. Rather, they were a hideous shade of brown – a shade that was my least-favorite of all.

Before my eyes, the once-exquisite leaves now became nothing but victims; nothing but dead bodies that lay lifeless on the path.

The wind wasn’t magical, either. It was cold, and harsh, and vicious. The sound it made reminded me of screams.

I struggled to regain composure, and hold in the coming tears. All I needed to do was make it to the bus stop on the other side of the park. A five minute walk, that was all.

Then, it was a five minute ride to Chinatown, where I lived. Ten minutes, that was all.

He had never liked time. He said it was binding. He said he didn’t like to be tied down.

Five minutes to the bus stop, then five minutes home. That was all.

But that wasn’t all. Five minutes was an eternity without him. Five minutes was too long. Forever….

I hugged myself as I walked through the park. My arms felt nothing like His had done: they weren’t warm, or strong, or comforting. They were cold, because of that harsh wind; weak, too, and they shook uncontrollably.

I had never felt more alone than I did on the bus. There were so many couples, hugging and kissing and cuddling, that it sickened me to my core.

Public affection had never disgusted me before – especially not with Him.

Couples… So many different types: young ones; old ones; couples where one was young and the other was old. Boys and girls, girls and girls, boys and boys…

I hated them. I hated them all.

I hated myself, too.

Hated the world.

But I could never hate him. No, never, ever hate Him.

At home, I washed the dishes and imagined I was washing myself. Making myself clean and whole again.

I couldn’t stand the shows on television because everyone was in love, and there was nothing on the radio but drivel about love, and every book on every shelve in my house was about love, and every turn I made, I came smack-bang, face-to-face with love.

And I hated love.

Hated it.

Despised it.

Wanted to hiss and spit at it.

So I tried to sleep, but I just kept replaying that afternoon in my head, backwards and forwards. Sometimes, I would just focus on parts. Sometimes, I would remember those parts out of order, as if I was piecing together a giant great puzzle.

Him, walking away.

Him, saying goodbye.

Us, holding hands and feeding the ducks stale bread that I’d found on my counter that morning.

Him, leaning down to kiss me.

Me, breathing in His scent.

A scent I couldn’t remember. A scent I couldn’t forget.

When sleep became impossible I tried a bath; baths were soothing, weren’t they? A bath would cleanse me, just like the dishwater cleaned the dishes.

A bath would heal me, like the Red Sea healed the sick.

This bath would be my Red Sea.

But then I remembered first night He had slept in my apartment.

He had filled this bath; hot water and too much bubble-bath liquid. Enough to fill my small bathroom with foam.

“I can’t use this all,” He said, leaning in the door frame.

“You can’t waste it,” I replied, my breath catching a little.

“You’re right, I can’t… Care to help me out with it?”

I couldn’t look at the bath after remembering that, let alone get into it, so instead I sat in my living room and let the time slip by in five minute increments.

In the morning I called in sick to work; I told them that I was coming down with something.

Despite my heavy lids and weary body, I still couldn’t sleep, so I searched through my books and looked for the goriest one I could find.

‘Macbeth’ was my final selection, but I didn’t even make it through the first page.

My eyes settled on the last two lines, and I stared for the longest time, until finally my vision blurred and tiny dark spots began appearing on the page.

I was so confused, until I realized that those dots were the result of my tears falling onto the page.

I hadn’t cried up until that point, but I let it all out.

It felt good, to cry.

The time moved quicker with every desperate sob.

When my tears ran dry, I didn’t feel cleansed.

In fact, I felt worse.

I wanted to be back in that place; in the mindless place that I had been before, during my tears.

I let myself think of His face.

I let my mind dwell on His most endearing traits.

His leather jacket. His habit of kissing my nose, then cheeks, then lips. The adorable way He would lean against walls and doors.

The more I considered Him, the more I was reminded of James Dean. It was this thinking that lead me to the video store; that resulted in me renting every Dean movie I could find.

For a week, I cried.

For a week, I wallowed in my own self-pity.

For a week, I waited for Him to call.

For a week, I was numb.

Numb. The polar-opposite of what I had been with Him.

With Him, every sense was alive.

With Him, I was free.

Free.

“You’re tying me down,” He said.

“I need my freedom!” He said.

“It’s all too much. Too much work,” He said.

“I just want you around!” I said.

“Be as free as you like! Just visit me every once in a while,” I said.

“It’s not worth it if it’s easy,” I said.

For a week, I waited.

On December 30th, my world started moving again.

Slowly, at first; colours were faded but nonetheless, they were there; laughter was awkward and rare; I still felt unloved.

But the faded colours gave me hope. One day, they would be bright again.

The awkward laughter at least reassured me. One day, it would feel natural again.

Feeling unloved wasn’t so bad.

At least I felt something.