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I call out for him, but Ansel is already gone.
When I open my front door, the cold air of the hallway permeates my bones, and he is already disappearing down the stairs.
I yell for him again, but he doesn’t stop.
My stomach is in my damn feet. My heart is in my throat. Endless tears stream down my face. I rush upstairs to throw on some clothes, any fucking clothes I can find, and I run back downstairs in a panic.
I grab my phone and I call him.
It rings once, twice, three times, then it goes to his voice mail.
I try again, but this time, it just goes straight to voice mail.
Fuck.
I’m out the door again and walking as fast as I can toward the subway station I know he’d have to take to get to the Village.
The wind is so cold, it’s damn near blistering, but I hardly register my pathetic attire of a flimsy sweatshirt and a pair of yoga pants.
Time is going too slowly, and I pick up my pace until I’m pretty much sprinting as fast as my legs will take me.
One block. Two blocks. Three blocks.
My lungs burn and my heart is banging against my rib cage, but I just keep going.
When I reach the station, I frantically search for him.
Left. Right. Every-fucking-where.
But he’s nowhere. Just…nowhere.
And when I reach the platform he would take, there is no Ansel to be found.
I try to call him, but it goes straight to voice mail…again.
He doesn’t want to talk to me.
He doesn’t want to be anywhere near me.
A sob escapes my lungs, and I lift my hand to cover my mouth, to try to stop the emotional hurricane threatening to make landfall.
But it doesn’t work.
It’s too much for him. The letter. Adam. It’s all too much for him.
One tiny sob turns into two which turns into three, and then it doesn’t stop.
And within those wretched sobs is the sound of my heart breaking.
Hearts don’t snap like hard pretzels or burst like an overfilled balloon.
No. A heart breaks in the heaving waves of a new reality. A tragic reality that has arrived uninvited. A heart breaks when you’re forced to face the possibility of a life you can’t bear to fathom.
A life without Ansel.
Indy
Seven days have passed, and each day I greet the sun like a climber greets their rope, fingers holding on as tight as fucking possible despite the pain.
But it’s no use.
I’m just a shell of a woman.
I can’t eat. I can’t be awake without thinking of Ansel. And I can’t think about Ansel without crying. It’s a vicious and what feels like infinite cycle of hell.
It’s Friday, and I’ve called off work every day this week.
Canceled all of my after-school music lessons.
Claimed I have the flu.
But, in reality, I have something much worse than the flu.
The flu is awful, but it goes away. Each day, you begin to feel better until, eventually, you’re back to your old self.
But heartbreak does no such thing. It is a never-ending, boundless sadness.
God, the word sad sounds so childish, like something flimsy. Something I should be able to change with a happy thought or a smile. But sad is nothing of the sort. It sits inside your soul like a seed of depression, and with the right conditions, it spreads its roots and chokes the hope out of your heart.
In this sadness, this heartbreak, I can’t see a past or a future. I’m merely living by the moment. And every day is measured from the second I wake up into this new reality and until my body can no longer take it and sleep lets my weary mind and aching heart rest.
Several knocks to my door and I turn up the television.
What’s on the TV? I don’t have a fucking clue. But whoever is on the other side of the door needs to go away.
Unfortunately for me, whoever it is has a key.
A minute later, my sister’s voice is bellowing from the entryway, and the front door is closing with a resounding click.
“Indy!” she calls again. “Where are you?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I pull a pillow from the couch and put it over my head.
Maybe if she doesn’t see me, she’ll go away.
Her footsteps get closer, and I hold my breath.
But it’s no use.
“Indy, what in the hell are you doing?” she asks, and the pillow is yanked from my hands.
I groan. “Go away, Lil.”
“Good God, this place is a mess.”
I ignore her. Even though I know she’s right. My kitchen and living room are a shrine to barely eaten takeout containers, dirty laundry, and unread mail.
“Fucking hell,” she mutters and starts walking around my apartment, picking up garbage.
“Just go home, Lil,” I say, and she tosses a glare my way.
“Yeah, right,” she retorts. “Like I’m going to leave you like this.”
