Clocked Heart

Chapter 2- June

I like rainy days, but only when I'm not outside getting drenched.

There's something about the rainy weather that draws me back to my childhood room. Little me, cocooned in blankets, the one that would feign illness to stay home, indulging in her books and savoring hot tea made by her mom. But now, as an adult, there's no fooling anyone to avoid my own writing tasks. It's amusing how the roles have reversed.

To be honest, nostalgia is a deceitful comfort. Nothing was ever as perfect as we remember. Sure, sometimes I yearned to be that ten-year-old again, snug and carefree in her bed. But if you offered me a chance to return and relive those days, I would despise having to grow up all over again.

I think what makes life both wretched and rewarding is that we can never truly relive a moment. No matter how hard we try to recreate it, the first experience is irreplaceable. So in the present, the only constant we can carry is the memory we cling to.

So now I wake up alone in the creaky comfy bed that I bought with my own money, reminding myself that it's another day to face my responsibilities, despite the loneliness creeping inside me early in the morning.

One of the many vexations of living alone was handling everything myself. I appreciated the tranquility of undisturbed mornings, but I missed having someone to nudge me awake when I overslept—which, let's be honest, happened more often than I'd like to admit.

Rolling over, I grabbed my journal and pen, my morning ritual. It usually began with jotting down a list of tasks for the day, accompanied by affirmations that seemed to flutter away as soon as they were written. Afterward, I would head to the kitchen for my morning coffee, a small comfort in the quiet solitude.

On days when I woke with a cloud over my mood, I preferred to linger in bed. But today, there were emails to answer, content to post, and a new chapter to draft before heading to my parents' house for the weekend.

After my coffee, I returned to my room and showered, washing away the morning's gloom. I sat at my small dressing table, braiding my hair to keep it neat and manageable. It was a simple act, but it felt like armor, preparing me for whatever the day held.

Dressed in a t-shirt and sweatpants, I grabbed my laptop and some fruit from the kitchen before retreating back to my bed. The first task was an email to my new editor.

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From: hopeabrams@gmail.com

Date: October 17, 2022, 9:30 a.m.

To: skylaraurther@gmail.com

Subject: Work

Dear Mr. Aurther,

I'm pleased to know you'll be stepping in for Mrs. Emily. Attached are the previous chapter drafts. I'd appreciate your feedback on them before we proceed further.

Regarding our working hours, I usually exchanged drafts with Mrs. Emily every Friday and discussed edits after the weekend. If this doesn't fit your schedule, please let me know.

I've read your terms and have a few questions. Could you clarify what you mean by not taking things personally? I believe our interactions will remain strictly professional.

For communication, I prefer emails and perhaps Zoom calls for screen sharing until our official meeting post-completion.

P.S. Feel free to call me Hope.

Sincerely,

Hope

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After hitting send, I exhaled, feeling a small sense of accomplishment. Yet, as I sat back, my focus waned. I headed to the kitchen, hoping for a spark of inspiration. Glancing out the window, I noticed movement in the beach house next door. Instinctively, I pulled the curtain, hiding the mess of my living room, and headed back to the kitchen.

Here's the thing—I hated cooking.

It wasn't that I was bad at it, but cooking alone had lost its charm. It was fun with Evelyn and Mom, but now it felt like a chore. Most days, I settled for heating up a frozen meal and tossing a salad—not the healthiest, but I made no effort to change.

With my meal heated, I sat on the couch, legs drawn up, staring at the blank TV screen. My mind churned with thoughts: "I feel like crying," "Is this really how I spend my days?" "I just want to sleep." Being in my twenties and alone often felt like watching life slip by, a silent observer of my own existence.

I wasn't always bitter about my solitude. I had achieved my dream of living by the sea, with a career I had longed for. But sometimes, even the realization of dreams couldn't fill the emptiness that sneaked in.

Mom once said I was ungrateful, for not giving myself enough credit. Maybe she was right, but there I was, alone, with a single friend who tolerated me and parents who worried about their daughter living in the middle of nowhere.

Feeling nauseous, I left my food and headed to the beach. Sitting on the sand, I zoned out, the waves a gentle lullaby. Ironically, my reflections often circled around my own feelings, my silent laments of a wretched existence. Instead, I should have focused on changing my mood, and on finding ways to lift myself out of this funk.

I wasn't growing as I had promised myself I would. I was stuck, expending no energy. Some days, I felt a glimmer of progress, but it was fleeting. So, there I was, sabotaging my own life. After dwelling some more about my life decision I Dusted off the sand, I decided to visit Stella's flower shop.

Arriving, Stella greeted me with a raised eyebrow. "June, what's wrong? You look off," she asked, seeing right through my facade.

"All's fine. How's business?" I deflected, not ready to unload my burdens.

"It's good. I heard the house next to you might finally be sold."

"Oh, really? Cool."

"What's with the dry response?"

"Nothing. It's just not a big deal," I said, noting Stella's confusion.

"June," Stella insisted, "you were ranting about wanting decent neighbors. Now you don't care?"

"We don't know if they'll live there or rent it out. Not many stay here permanently."

"True," Stella conceded. "Most prefer city life." I nodded, "Oh, I came to ask if I can borrow your car for the weekend." I changed the subject, hoping to steer the conversation away from my disinterest. "Sure, visiting your parents?" she asked.

"Yeah," I replied, less enthused than I felt. "What time are you leaving?" she inquired, arranging flowers around her.

"Afternoon. I want to beat the crowd."

"Have dinner with us tonight. You can take the car afterward," she suggested.

Agreeing, I said goodbye and headed back home to change into something decent.

As I approached my house, I saw a man and a little girl. She was giggling, running with a white rose in hand. Despite the darkening sky, they seemed happy, a small, vibrant tableau against the gray.

Inside, I changed into a mint green dress and white sandals, grabbed my bag, and worked on my book for an hour before heading to Stella's, cookies in hand.

Stella's grandma greeted me warmly, and we set the table, enjoying a meal filled with laughter and light conversation. It was a comforting balm after a day of self-doubt.

At nine-thirty, I said my goodbyes, took the car keys and drove home. Dropping my keys on the counter, I headed to the bathroom, then collapsed into bed, burying myself under the blankets.

I had made it through the day. (Just another random Thursday.)