Young Writers Society

It had been seven days and seven nights, and you hadn’t had a drop of coffee. That was concerning above all else because if there was one fundamental thing that could be said about you, Sam, it was that you couldn’t – and probably shouldn’t – go a day without at least one cup of the stuff.

It had been seven days and seven nights, and I’d been there each moment that passed from the funeral onward. At first it was a little surreal, which, of course, it should be. A ghost in my own home, I watched as you entered our apartment for the first time, alone. When I called out, you couldn’t hear me. When I reached for you hand, our world didn’t collide like I’d anticipated. Disappointed, I sulked into the shadows as you threw your jacket onto our outdated recliner, and took up residence on the window seat that overlooked our front yard without so much as flinching.

I’d guessed you’d be upset, but it was an unearthing kind of upset that I continually witnessed. That first night was painful because you did not move from the window seat, save for when you trudged over to the bathroom seven minutes after midnight. You did not utter a word except in your sleep at exactly quarter to four, when my name rolled off your tongue three and a half times: “Alex…Alex, stop… Stay in the car, Alex… Al…”

I wondered at first, why you were even at our apartment, when you’d been through so much. I’d have guessed you’d drive home to your parents like you did before the funeral, but right after the funeral, you locked yourself in our apartment, and didn’t answer the phone when it rang the first few times. You’d always hated being alone, so this Sam was a foreign Sam to me; it didn’t help that you hadn’t even attempted to touch the coffee machine, an item so routine on your agenda that I wondered if you were even Sam at all.

On the second day, you attempted to watch some TV. You’d recorded your favourite shows newest episode from the night we took a drive– but the moment you press play, you had to stop it again. I could read the pain on your face like size 72 -font in a book from across the room. And there it was: that desire to crouch in next to you on the window seat and wrap you up in your favourite fleecy blanket. I’d bring you a cup of coffee – two milks, not stirred – and tell you that, in spite of your grief, you’d be okay in time.

Here’s a fact, though: I couldn’t touch anything. I couldn’t feel your warmth or smell the scent of your shampoo or wrap my arms around you. This world is a river and I’m a rock – passed by, undetectable. I’d never realized how often I’d taken for granted your hand on my shoulder as I cook dinner or your breath on my neck right before sunrise.

You decided it might be beneficial to your mental health to open the front door and take a gander into the front yard when day four rolled around.

As it turned out, it wasn’t a smart idea. At first, I noticed you loosened up a little. After two days of sitting and watching and doing nothing, it was encouraging to see you make an effort, but you nearly had a heart attack when a bird took flight five feet from where you stood. Immediately, you retreated to the safety of our apartment and locked the door behind you. You checked the lock four different times that day – just to make sure – and twice in the middle of the night. That was the first night that you cried, too. It came in cycles: sobs, silent tears, and then the disturbing cries of a brokenhearted soul filled the hollow apartment.

I supposed you’d repressed pretty much everything since that last night we spent together: the way you stuck your head out the window and we passed other cars and laughed obnoxiously when I reprimanded you. Like a flame to a flint, you lit up my night, blasting the music as we drove from our home in the city to an unknown location. And that was kind of nice, wasn’t it, Sam? How each time either of us felt overwhelmed or anxious about something, I’d start up the car and we’d drive into the night.

Of course, it all ended with a coffee break. I’d insisted we head back home because I was exhausted from driving, but you gripped my bicep and forced me to look into your pleading eyes.

“Pleeeeease, Alex,” you pointed to the exit coming up, “I think there’s an old coffee shop a few kilometers in.”

Saying no to you was like saying no to a hurricane.

We caught the storeowner just before he was about to close up for the night – you eagerly took the cup of coffee like a small child receiving their first Christmas present. We sat in the parking lot; only able to see each other because of the streetlamp we’d parked under. I stole a lot at you, eager to get going, but willing to sit and watch you drink your damn coffee if that’s what made you happy.

Every time you would smile like that, I remembered how it felt to fall in love with you; a passion that formed when our eyes first met back in our high school hallway, and a burning adoration that endured long after our relationship’s expiration date had passed.

It’s funny – or ironic, I suppose – that our last conversation was about coffee. A tap on my window jostled me from my thoughts and when I turned to see where the noise had come from, I saw a man no older than you or I peering in at us with a look of desperation in his eyes. I rolled the window down halfway.

“Hey, can we help you?” I asked. That was my first mistake. The man scratched his head as he tried to explain his situation.

“Well, my car isn’t starting, and I’m not much of a mechanic. Do you think you could give me a hand?”

You looked at me expectantly. I did know a thing or two about cars, so I unbuckled my seatbelt and turned to you one last time before leaving the car. “Stay in the car, okay?” I gave your hand a squeeze and you nodded, and sipping away at your coffee, not an ounce of suspicion in your eyes.

You hear about serial killers in shows and read about homicides in books, but the very last thing you would ever expect is to be the victim of one.

I leaned over the opened hood of his car that sat across the lot from ours. How could I have anticipated that a perfect stranger would bury a bullet in my chest, filling me equally with pain and confusion until the dark spots webbed over my entire vision.

I’m glad you got away, though. I think you knew I was dead by the time you realized what was happening. The intelligence in your decision to leap into the driver’s seat and speed out of the parking lot and straight to the nearest police station made me proud. If you had stayed behind to try and rescue me, we’d both be dead, and where would the sense in that be?

Looking at you on day seven, I think maybe the reason you couldn’t have coffee is because you felt guilty about making us stop that night. If we hadn’t pulled off the highway to feed your addiction, I wouldn’t have been murdered, and I can see it in how you fold in on yourself on the window seat that you can’t forgive yourself. You cannot allow yourself to be happy in any way, because you thought the entire thing was your fault.

I thought, if only I could show you that it’s okay to be okay, Sam. I wished somehow I could project this manifestation of emotions onto the situation and make you see.

But something else happened instead. You were in the kitchen at half past six that night, filling up your glass of water. You glanced quickly at the coffee machine and away again; there it was again, the guilt. I reached out for the coffee machine, and this time, when I aimed to touch it, I actually felt it. The button beneath my pointer finger was cold, and I realized that not all was lost. That somehow I’d been given one last chance to make things right with you, in the best way possible. To let you know I wasn’t angry with you.

I clicked the button, and was filled with a divine sense of joy to hear the sound of the brewer as it started up. I stood back and watched as you, confusedly, examined the coffee machine.

“What the hell?” You muttered, standing in place as you took in the coffee dripping from the filter and into the pot.

Past your confusion I saw a small smile curve onto your lips, and I think you knew deep down that it was a sign... that it was okay. That you could have your coffee without feeling like you were choosing it over me.

So you grabbed your favourite yellow mug from the top shelf of the cupboard above the sink, and poured yourself a cup – two milks, not stirred – and sat at your spot at our small kitchen table. It was nice to see you sitting up after seven days and seven nights of slouching. I took my place across from you at the table and admired your smile – small as it was – as you tasted the bitter, steaming liquid that crept onto your tongue. When you helped yourself to a second cup, Sam, my fading spirit knew that you’d be okay without me. That you’d live on and ease yourself back into the busy routine you loved; taking joy in small things like a cup of well-deserved coffee.