I feel like a zombie. A hollow version of myself.
I hate it.
I hate the mess I’m living in. I hate the way it reflects exactly how I feel: sad, overwhelmed, broken, and completely withdrawn.
I pull my knees up to my chest, curling up in a ball in my oversized T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. I stare blankly at the TV, trying not to think about him. But all I see is him.
All I see is Owen, baring his soul to me on the night-shrouded beach, confessing his love to me.
All I see is him waiting for me at the airport gate, seconds before bending down to help an elderly woman gather her things.
God, I’m such a coward for scurrying off like a scared animal.
How can I be so cold, especially after how great a friend Owen has been to me? I will carry this shame forever.
Over the weekend, I’ve been questioning if I did the right thing. And even if I did, I’ll never be able to forgive myself for letting him go.
He probably hates me for how I've been pushing him away and avoiding him.
As I’m wallowing in self-pity, refusing to move a muscle, my body flinches as a firm knock comes from the front door.
I lay still, holding my breath, willing whoever it is to go away.
The last thing I want right now is to see a human being. I’m not ready for the world to witness my puffy eyes or my greasy hair, which is now fused into a brittle nest on top of my head.
Another knock sounds off, louder and more insistent.
Maybe it’s a package. Or Sally, my neighbor from down the hall, who likes to bring me baked goods from time to time. But I can usually smell her baking before she brings anything over.
The third knock is punctuated with a familiar, deep voice that stops my heart.
“Meadow. It’s me.”
My entire body goes still as my pulse thuds against my ears.
Owen.
When he knocks again, I shoot upright on the couch, my mind scrambling for a plan.
“Meadow. I hear your TV,” he sighs. “Either open up, or I’ll stand out here all day.”
I briefly close my eyes and push a hand through my hair.
What the hell is he doing here? How am I not dead to him by now? I’ve treated him so terribly.
At the very least, I owe him a conversation.
Finally, I exhale a deep breath and shuffle to the door, my heart rattling around in my chest.
The closer I get to him, the quicker my breath falls. I glance at my reflection in the entryway mirror and recoil at the sight. I look like I’ve been dragged out of a rain gutter.
I open the door just a crack, hovering behind the chain.
Owen stands in the hall, snow melting in his hair, his nose pink from the cold. He has my favorite latte in hand, a peace offering.
He looks just as broken as I do. His face is hollow, his skin pale and ashen from exhaustion, and dark bags sit beneath his gorgeous eyes. Even his posture is off; he’s slightly hunched, like he can barely keep himself upright.
It breaks my heart. I’ve never seen Owen look so disheveled.
