A quite chilly morning and a quiet room woke her up rather early to an unoccupied part of her bed that was too neat to make her understand he wasn't there. She lay there looking at those perfectly positioned pillows and unruffled sheets. For once, her world came to a halt.
She never noticed the beautiful design of the bedsheets until that morning and when her gaze shifted to the fluffy white pillow, she at once winced for not changing the pillow cover that still had one of his hair strands. But she would let it be, for as long as it was possible. Slowly she let her hand out of those warm sheets hoping to feel the warmth on that part of unoccupied bed; yet she was rewarded with stone cold emptiness. It was strange, for her inner-self didn't start blabbering to her the very moment she opened eyes. It's an ideal solution after all, to not think, to not understand the gravity of the situation, to stay still and not let the worldly routine and chores invade her peace.
Of all these years, only now did she start to notice and wonder the little details of their room, the cracks on the wall, the old ceiling fan which accumulated dust and stared gravely at her, the old newspapers coverings on the shelves whose odour she suddenly had the urge to breathe in.
She always had this craving for smelling old books or papers that made her fascinating to him. That's how they met. In a library, when she was busy finding a book on those dusty stacks which were abandoned by most of the people, leaving them to be rescued from their solitude by her, she with her enthusiastic big glasses gleamed in coherence to the spark in her eyes when she found ''Wuthering Heights''. Unaware of any company she had, she quickly opened that old book and touched those yellow pages, worn out with time and inhaled the intoxicating smell. He was taken aback by this peculiar behaviour and started watching her until she noticed him. Their eyes met then, in the temple of books and old literature, where millions of dreams come true on delving into those stories the books held. 'That truly is an affair lasting for a lifetime', thought those dreamy old books in the stack room. Yet, his absence this morning questioned the magic the universe beholds.
Still in bed, unyielding to move out of it, her eyes searched for that hope, unwilling to give up and fathom the reality behind the quiet room. Yet she knew deep down her heart and far beneath her conscious mind that this was it. He was not coming back. She wanted to be angry at him, for maybe anger could preoccupy her from driving herself to madness. Anger can keep her going for a while, but she utterly failed at it too, making her return to this numbness which assuaged her and morphed the stinging pain of her heart. The pain, she remembered, and quickly made an effort to dodge those thoughts to the meaningless meanderings of comprehending the shades of the curtain covering the morning sun rays from slipping into her bedroom.
It felt incomplete. The room that echoed with their laughter doesn't seem the same. The bedside table that used to be occupied with his books was devoid of any life it previously had. The still and quiet room was as good as if it was dead. Dead? Now, her inner voice screamed with pain and disgust on fate, that she wanted him back; but who would hear her cries to get him back for her?!
He won't ever come back. EVER!
She never noticed the beautiful design of the bedsheets until that morning and when her gaze shifted to the fluffy white pillow, she at once winced for not changing the pillow cover that still had one of his hair strands. But she would let it be, for as long as it was possible. Slowly she let her hand out of those warm sheets hoping to feel the warmth on that part of unoccupied bed; yet she was rewarded with stone cold emptiness. It was strange, for her inner-self didn't start blabbering to her the very moment she opened eyes. It's an ideal solution after all, to not think, to not understand the gravity of the situation, to stay still and not let the worldly routine and chores invade her peace.
Of all these years, only now did she start to notice and wonder the little details of their room, the cracks on the wall, the old ceiling fan which accumulated dust and stared gravely at her, the old newspapers coverings on the shelves whose odour she suddenly had the urge to breathe in.
She always had this craving for smelling old books or papers that made her fascinating to him. That's how they met. In a library, when she was busy finding a book on those dusty stacks which were abandoned by most of the people, leaving them to be rescued from their solitude by her, she with her enthusiastic big glasses gleamed in coherence to the spark in her eyes when she found ''Wuthering Heights''. Unaware of any company she had, she quickly opened that old book and touched those yellow pages, worn out with time and inhaled the intoxicating smell. He was taken aback by this peculiar behaviour and started watching her until she noticed him. Their eyes met then, in the temple of books and old literature, where millions of dreams come true on delving into those stories the books held. 'That truly is an affair lasting for a lifetime', thought those dreamy old books in the stack room. Yet, his absence this morning questioned the magic the universe beholds.
Still in bed, unyielding to move out of it, her eyes searched for that hope, unwilling to give up and fathom the reality behind the quiet room. Yet she knew deep down her heart and far beneath her conscious mind that this was it. He was not coming back. She wanted to be angry at him, for maybe anger could preoccupy her from driving herself to madness. Anger can keep her going for a while, but she utterly failed at it too, making her return to this numbness which assuaged her and morphed the stinging pain of her heart. The pain, she remembered, and quickly made an effort to dodge those thoughts to the meaningless meanderings of comprehending the shades of the curtain covering the morning sun rays from slipping into her bedroom.
It felt incomplete. The room that echoed with their laughter doesn't seem the same. The bedside table that used to be occupied with his books was devoid of any life it previously had. The still and quiet room was as good as if it was dead. Dead? Now, her inner voice screamed with pain and disgust on fate, that she wanted him back; but who would hear her cries to get him back for her?!
He won't ever come back. EVER!
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