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I close my eyes as I put the key into the door.
I hate coming home.
Coming home to an empty house is the worst kind of torture. It reminds me of what I don’t have. It hits me straight in the face as I walk in the door to a cold and lonely apartment without of the aroma of a home-cooked meal or Eliza’s infectious smile.
The house is deathly silent.
I throw my keys on the sideboard and go straight to the bar to pour myself a scotch—my only friend and constant companion. I’ve found if I drink enough, I can sleep.
With a shaky hand, I sip my scotch as I walk out into the kitchen with the bottle, Eliza’s unopened letter sits on the bench where she left it. It’s taunting me, begging to be read.
It’s this little game I play with myself every night. I call it the wheel of torture.
I sit at the counter, drink in hand, as I stare at the letter. It taunts me with words unsaid.
But I can’t read it. I will never read it.
Because she didn’t love me enough to stay and fight, and I loved her too much to let her go.
But she went anyway.
So, it doesn’t matter.
I tip my head back and drain my drink before I pour another immediately. I feel the heat of the spirit rolling down my throat.
I’m done with love. I never want to feel this bad again.
I get my laptop and I open it up to click on the history.
Find My Phone.
I switch it on and type in Eliza’s phone number. I watch the little red dot light up the screen. It blinks, the beat strong and consistent.
She’s in her hotel.
My chest tightens as I watch it. Her phone is a hotline to my heart. It brings back everything, and I see her laughing and smiling up at me. I see us making love and lying together naked. I remember the happiness I felt in her arms.
With a shaky hand, I refill my glass and drain it. Then, I do it again. I just want to sleep. I want to wake up and not feel like this.
I close my eyes as her betrayal washes over me.
It’s cold, bitter, and it hurts like hell.
One month later: September
I sit at the bar and stare at the screen on the wall.
I’m in a dark place.
Twenty-nine days without her. Twenty-nine days in a cage of living hell.
I miss her.
I miss who I am when she’s beside me.
Happiness.
The elusive emotion.
