Her Name Is Havoc

Two months ago

  It has been a week since I last saw her. I called endlessly until she blocked my number, I guess. I sent her so many texts and waited in patience. She texted me back four days ago, though. "It's over," she said.
   There's different stages of depression. The first stage feels heavy but easy to shove off. You feel dragged down sometimes but you can easily get caught up in something and forget for a while. But it's not permanent. The sadness is there but it gives your head some rest from time to time. You become a passenger riding continuously between high and low tides. Until you go real deep into the low gripping tides. 
  The second stage is more lingering. You find yourself stuck on moments. Specific memories that replay endlessly in your head threatening to leave you by like everybody else. And no matter how hard you try to not think of these moments, they're the only thing you can come up with. You're busy. Too busy. To do anything and everything. But you're doing nothing. But you're busy, right? Busy with thought. There's a talk show going inside your head where you're questioned and with emphasis you answer. You know everything but nothing. And you're confident because it's not real. You're just inside your head where it's safe and familiar. And you keep telling yourself that this thinking will get you somewhere. And that you will soon figure everything out.
  Then there's the third stage. When you don't think anymore. Your head is void. You feel bleak for a reason you can't grasp. And it's hard. Suffocating. And you want to stop this but if only you knew how. If only you knew how it even started. Your soul will dwindle a bit by a bit in this stage. And at some point you start questioning yourself about the significance of breathing.
  I came to learn that years ago. Experience is knowledge, huh? And I know so much it hurts. I know that this isn't taking me anywhere. That I will be stuck on this time capsule forever. There's no moving on. But what I find confusing is that I don't look forward to it. That's how dear I hold her. If the thought of her brings me pain, then pain it is.
  Letting go is just not a choice. I breathe her already. The fact that this could end is not even a possibility. It can't happen. Not now. Not ever. I would die. And this isn't hypothetical. Nor exaggerated.
   So I sat by her door again the other night. I did that for the first three days after she left and never showed a face. I used to go and knock for so long. I begged her to let me in. To listen. And when she made it clear she wasn't going to open, I went back home. And thought of her to sleep. But after I received her text, I realized that I was annoying her rather than running a progress. I was playing the creepy stalker I antagonized in movies. I had to take a step back. But today I missed her again. I missed her voice and the shade of her hair. I missed being looked after, but I missed looking after her more. A lonely life teaches you to appreciate the ones you bring into your life. And the idea of going back to this loneliness that I despise projects all shades of fear and misery within you. Depression was enveloping me so fast and I needed a hand to pull me out. Hers.
  I didn't knock this time. I just curled up into a ball and sat by the door patiently. I waited. I don't know what is it that I was waiting for, though. I just sat there. I played different scenarios in my head, in every one of which I was told to go back to where I came from. It didn't bother me. I knew that I wasn't getting a green light tonight. Or anytime soon. And I deserve it for a reason. For so many reasons, actually. But what if she came back here with another man. I know I have no right to ban her from seeing someone else. She said it's over anyways. She believes she's single, and it hurts like hell. Can she really walk in here stepping on my heart like it's yet another floor tile?
  I kept praying she's still only mine, when I see her approaching the door. She doesn't look surprised to my surprise. She looks composed. Like she has been expecting this.
"Hazel," I said standing up and almost losing my balance.
"What are you doing here? I told you it is over."
"You can't decide that without even listening to me. I know I messed up, but at least give me a chance to speak up for myself."
"Speak up for yourself? Speak up and say what, huh? That you're sorry? And that you were just pissed that I didn't inform you before? And that it won't happen again? Here's the thing! I don't care! I don't care if you're sorry. I don't care if you were pissed or if you will try to grow up or whatever you were going to say! Because I know you don't mean it! I know that you're not sorry. Not even a little bit! You think you weren't to blame. And that you were just trying your best to make sure I stick by you. This is just you. And you won't change!" she yelled.
   I know she was right. But I still can't. How can I admit that? That she has every right to leave me.
"I'll try, Hazel, just give me a chance..."
"Don't call me that anymore. I am not Hazel. And you shouldn't call me that again."
   I don't know if it's the helplessness or the heartache that drove the tears down my face. She gave me the cold shoulder as she opened the door.
"But...I love you!" I managed with a shriek before my voice came out no more.
   She turned back to look at me, "I know." She slammed the door.
    You don't have to see something to know it exists. I know this spear in my heart exists, although my eyes get no hold of it.