Is It...My Fault?

My Fault

      
        I used to tell you my favorite color was green and you never asked why. It was because of your eyes. They held the most beautiful green I'd ever seen. No other green compared to your luminous eyes. I would tell you that I loved milk chocolate because it was the same color as your hair. The hair I used to run my fingers through. The same hair you grew out so when it was long enough you could cut it and give it to charity. I remember you used to love helping people. You still do but it's different now. Now when you do you get teary-eyed. I can see it on your face from up here. I think you get that sadness because I used to be by your side helping but now you do it alone. Is it my fault that helping doesn't feel the same as it used to?

        Your eyes lost that sparkle they used to have. Your skin has become pale. You've been biting your nails again. Is it my fault you look like this?
You refuse to get out of bed most days. On this day you managed. You slipped on some black trousers and the sweatshirt I bought you on your birthday. It was a grayish blue. I told you it really made your eyes stand out. I also got it because the blue in the shirt matched mine. You used to wear bright, bold outfits. I would always match mine to yours.

        Sometimes your outfits were so bold that I would giggle at them. I'd still match you and tell you how handsome you look in it. We go walking down the street in them and get so many stares. At first, I didn't like the attention, but I got used to it. Either way, the eyes didn't matter. I was dressing the same as you because I loved you. I still love you. And because I loved you I continued to match with you because the eyes didn't matter. What mattered to me was your happiness. I was so happy with you. Is it my fault you're not happy anymore?

        You got out of bed to go to your family's art gallery. It was just a short coach ride away from our home. This time you walked there. You got to the gallery and you walked around as if you were lost. You looked at the paintings and sculptures with a confused glare. You couldn't read them. You always struggled with understanding the meanings behind the art. I would always whisper into your ear what they meant. You would then say you did not know that, but you did. We'd been to your parents' art gallery many times and every time you would ask for the meaning behind the art because you knew I loved telling you. Even though you knew the meaning you still asked for the meaning because you know it meant a lot to me. Is it my fault you can't read the painting like you used to?

        You followed your way along the walls of the building, slowly counting to my favorite one out of them all. "Water Lily Pond" by Claude Monet. I loved it because I could stare at it for hours and still see something new that I didn't see before. I loved the way Monet used his creativity to show a harmonious relationship between the natural and man-made things in the world. No one ever truly admired that, at least of the people I had ever met. But you, you did Harry. You admired the painting with me. We'd sit on the bench and talk about the painting. The things we saw, didn't understand and admired. You'd always tell me that the painting reminded you of me, not just because it was my favorite but because It was lively and beautiful, just like me. That's what you would say. Is it my fault you can't tell me the painting reminds you of me anymore?

        Tears began to form in your eyes, soon trickling down your rosy cheeks. You slipped through the crowded building, through the doors. You fell apart on the streets of New York. You were crying because of me. Because I can no longer be with you. Because everything you do reminds you of me and how we would do almost everything together and now...you do everything alone. I wish it wouldn't have ended like this. I wish our love story could have continued. You were the love of my life. Is it my fault you fell apart?

        I watched as you pushed your way through the streets. You ended up at my old job. My boss called you and asked if you could come to collect my things from my old office. I watched as you packed my things into cardboard boxes. You stood at my desk, staring at it. You grabbed a small metal picture from below my monitor. It was a photo of us. My favorite photo of us. We were at the arcade. You had never been because your parents never had enough money to take you as a child, so I took you. We were shooting basketballs into the tiny hoop that moves around. I remember you lifted me up to throw a ball in the hoop. After the game was over I made you take a photo with me so we could remember the first time you went to an arcade. Your smile was so bright. Your inner child was gleaming on the outside. Your smile was always so precious. One of the many things I treasured about you. Is it my fault you haven't smiled like that again?

        I watched as you slipped the rest of my things into the box. You pulled yourself together and went through the door. You didn't walk home this time. You called for a coach and went home that way. You were impatiently ready to be home. We lived in a brick apartment building on the 3rd floor. We asked the landlord if we could paint the door to our apartment dark blue. After some convincing he let us. I remember we spent a whole day painting that door. At one point you got serious about painting the door. You were extremely focused. So I took my paintbrush and dipped it in the cool paint and I started painting your back with the paint. You turned around with your jaw dropped because of what I did. You grabbed your paint roller and began to roll it all over my face. We giggled and laughed through it. We were so happy. The paint splattered everywhere as we were throwing paint at one another. It left blue paint splatters all over the entrance floor. I see the splatters. Is it my fault you were ready to get home?

         I watch as you cry in the darkened hall. Your sobs echo through the apartment. Your face is tightly tucked into your legs. Your tears drench your sweatpants. Laying next to you is my old stuffed bunny. He never had a name till you named her for me. You named him Hazzah. Haz for short. I used to cuddle with that every night. You would always make sure she was right by my side at night. I remember one time you woke up late at night to get something from the kitchen, when you came back you realized Haz was laying on the floor so you picked him up and laid him gently next to me. I guess you didn't realize I was awake because when I said thank you, you jumped back. At the moment I seriously scared you but after it happened all we could do was laugh about it. Is it my fault you're crying?

        It's only been a week since I've been gone. You've barely left the bed since. You haven't been fully taking care of yourself. You take showers every other day. You've quit cleaning up after yourself. You think there is no point in doing it. No one is coming home to look at it. It's just you. You find it hard to do anything really. You have no motivation. You used to be the cleanest and neatest person I'd ever met. Is it my fault you're like this now? Is this all...my fault?
If I had just stayed home that day, the accident wouldn't have happened. If I had just stayed inside an extra 5 minutes, the drunk driver wouldn't have crashed into me. If only I had just stayed home as you wanted me to. I didn't even get to say goodbye. Now I've left you hurt, alone, and vulnerable and there is absolutely nothing I can do. I can't help but feel as if this is...my fault.