Hope for Her
The keys fell on the ground with a clink. I picked them up and tried locking the door with my trembling hands. I dropped the keys again. I didn’t want to be late. Sighing, I bent down to notice that I had folded my jeans up. I hastily pulled them down, knowing how much she hated them that way. Without her around, I was living on autopilot. After a few more attempts, I heard the much awaited click of the lock slipping into place. I slapped my back pocket to check if the book was still there, and the even lump confirmed so. I walked past my car and the flower beds that only had brown soil and brown, withered flowers. I didn’t take the car; I decided to walk instead.
I made my way towards the market a few blocks away. I was still trembling, my head dizzy, sweat running in rivulets down my nervous face. “This is a bad idea. I should go back home,” I told myself sternly. I turned halfway, but then strongly decided against going back. After months of worrying and procrastination, I got myself out for this specific reason. I carefully chose this day beforehand, even cancelling work and plans with my friends. No, I was going to do this. I turned and started walking once more. “But what if?” said that now annoying little voice. I stopped in my tracks. “NO,” I replied firmly. Whatever the outcome, I will see this through.
And I was on my way to the market once more. If someone had been watching me at that moment, I’m sure they’d suspect that I had constant bouts of Alzheimer’s because I seemed to forget where I was going, but in reality I was a man that had lost his meaning of life, and was in the battle of finding that one thing that made sense when nothing else did.
There was this quote I saw somewhere (or someone probably told me that)…something along the lines of “If she doesn’t scare the hell outta you, she isn’t the one,” and I felt that (quite strongly at the moment, to be honest). Every time I read the words “she” or “her" I would always, always, without a moment’s hesitation, think about her. I first saw her in high school. She had always been around but I never noticed her. I never noticed how beautiful she was, or the way her eyes looked, all big and cute, or that little something that got me hooked from the second I saw her. She was breathtaking. She was she.
I luckily got the chance to slide into her DM’s and after some absolutely painful hours of waiting, she replied. I “yeyed” around the room until I got myself together, and replied to her “I’m sorry, but I don’t really know you” text. Then we got talking, and heck was I excited. She was shy but awfully sweet. Fast-forward a few months and we were together. I was head-over-heels for her and permanently over-the-moon-cloud-number-nine happy. I remember hanging out and coffee dates in our favourite coffeehouse that we visited at weekends. Those days being the best days of my life would be a major understatement. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and months into years. I got accepted into uni, landed my dream job and bought a nice house, and all the while, she was there. A few months later (not long ago from now), we got married. I think I hit the jackpot. Most people, when they literally hit the jackpot, tend to lose it all in a matter of weeks or months, and I was most people, the only difference being that I took only a matter of moments to lose her.
Before her I was just a mess; I hung out with the wrong people, barely opened a textbook and never went up in grades — the only way was downhill. And then she came and changed everything from level zero. There was purpose. I knew I had to find some real friends, work hard and earn those grades, but for her. I didn’t want to do that for myself, even if it was what she wanted. She even made me start drawing after seeing my art, and over time I could draw pretty well. She wanted to prove that I was the winner she saw, instead of the dumb jock I thought I was.
People say that you are the only person that can save yourself from whatever troubles you get into and only you can break yourself free, but I beg to differ. It’s true that she wasn’t always physically there, but she was always around, if you get what I mean. I might seem clingy, but it’s just that she had this magnetism that I simply couldn’t resist.
Thinking about her, I found myself walking into the bustling market. I’d usually need a GPS to get from one end of the house to another, but you know, she’s not special for nothing. I combed the place for a little boutique that I knew sells fresh flowers, and on finding the place, went over and bought her red and yellow roses with forget-me-nots of a brilliant blue dotting the bouquet —the primary colours. Unique and unparalleled, the colours that brought the other colours to life. I started walking towards her house.
I shifted the bouquet in my arms so that it would rest on my chest, being careful not to damage a single flower. I patted the book in my back pocket once more. That book contained the story of my life after she left, and letters and drawings into which I poured my heart and soul into, my rants and my telling her how much she mattered to me, and that I was wrong. From the day she left, I started writing and drawing, because I knew that I was going to get her back someday (at least I hoped so), and that a mere bouquet of flowers or an “I miss you, I’m sorry” teddy bear would not be enough. Should I have bought her flowers and some flimsy card, she wouldn’t have said anything but she deserves more than that, way more than that, trust me. She’s my red and yellow and blue.
I can’t help but think about how much I miss her. I’d come home to a warm hug, kisses and her comforting voice, but now I come to see an empty house, heavy with the hush of her absence.
She was infectiously hard-working. We used to work together when we had assignments and projects. Sometimes I’d have a back-crushing load of work and she’d take my hand and sit me down and we’d work together until it was effortlessly over. She’d always be working, even before bed. I’d lie beside her reading, but mostly looking at her, marvelling at how I had ended up with her, until she’d notice and laugh saying, “What?” I’d look away then, but sneak glances at her while I pretend-read.
Months passed by, irritation growing like an inflating balloon. She was understandably busy. She kept on telling me to give her one more month and she wouldn’t be as busy whenever I complained. I missed her, and before the month was up, I struck the balloon with the sharpest pin I could find. What started off as an understanding discussion turned to a crescendo of an argument, our love of years teetering on the edge. She’d calm down and try to soothe me, but I just couldn’t stop. It was rather inhuman to watch a piece of her shatter with my every word, but hurt was speaking over my heart. We’ve had fights before, so mild that you could barely call them fights, and one as vicious as this had never happened. Now I regret not ploughing through that one month, knowing that it would have saved us this lifetime of loneliness.
“It's like I don’t even need you anymore!” I yelled. There was silence.
“Okay, honey. I’ll go,” she said, sadness and disappointment ringing in every syllable of her words.
I watched her drive out of the garage from what used to be our bedroom window, the afternoon she left. I only had to see her in the car, looking up at me one last time, to know what I’d lost. But it was too late. The fire was over, but the embers still glowed. And she was gone, leaving nothing behind for me save remorse.
I came to my senses when I noticed that I was on the driveway where I knew she lived. In the little time she had been here, she had started growing roses and chamomiles, which dotted the garden in vibrant blooms of colour. I rang the doorbell, clumsily taking a step backward, tripping over my legs, and took a deep breath to steady myself. I took the little book out of my pocket and held it with the bouquet. The door opened, and I saw what my eyes had longed for. She was a sight for my sore eyes, standing there, poised, her lush, messy hair falling over her shoulders to her sides in waves. I met her dark, round eyes, the same look of interested curiosity she had had since the day I saw her, but there was something different. Was she angry? Confused? Was she glad to see me? I stood there, breathing in her elegance in a whir of emotion. The pain of rejection was already setting in, her eyes staring into mine as I stared back, searching hers for feeling. They softened. And a smile danced on her lips.
