The Turning Point

CHAPTER SIX- A STORM WITHIN ME

Another month had passed.

I always woke up after lunchtime. I distracted myself with movies, music… At night, I would sit at the back of the house in my rocking chair, covering my legs with a blanket and savoring my coffee. Everything felt so lonely. So distant from me.

Sometimes there were tears, other times just frustration. I came to understand that love was nothing more than a series of drinks. We get drunk on the pleasure it brings. And the next day, all that’s left is the headache.

The nights became unbearably long, and the days, endless. The memories of him were so painfully vivid. The sound of his laughter echoed in my head, along with the clear memory of his touch. It haunted my nights. I was afraid I was loving him even more than before.

I needed to leave. I needed to get away from everything that reminded me of him, everything that made me want to be with him. I was completely shattered.

Christmas came, and I never left the house. I refused to accept visits from Ashley and some friends. There were no trees, no decorations, no presents. No warm company, no voices. Just the silence of my home and the cold, hard sadness that embraced me.

And then, five months had passed since he left me. Damn months. Damn hours.

Sometimes, I lost myself watching the rain outside.

There’s something interesting about the rain. The blue sky dissolves into gray, the clouds grow heavy, and you run, trying to escape the cold drops threatening to touch your skin. Sometimes, you find shelter. Other times, there’s no escape. And then, the first drops are the cruelest—cold, sharp, like needles piercing your skin. Your body shrinks, trying to resist, but soon, it realizes—it’s useless. After a while, there’s no difference between being wet or dry. The rain stops feeling like an attack and becomes just part of the journey. The only thing to do is keep walking, step by step, until you find shelter.

Life is like that. When everything seems in place, when the comfort zone fits perfectly around us, disappointment comes without warning, like storm clouds darkening the day. It chills our bones, makes us shiver, and instinctively, we try to run. But no matter how much we try, sometimes we get drenched. And the first days, weeks, or even months are the hardest. The pain is relentless, like the cutting wind of a storm. At first, we resist. Then, we surrender to the inevitable. And slowly, the soul gets used to the weight of the raindrops. The storm is still there, but the urgency of despair gives way to resignation. There’s no more crying. Just the need to move forward. Because, eventually, a shelter must appear.

But I am still in the rain. I still feel the cold piercing my skin. I still see the dark sky with no promise of clarity. The first days and months dragged on, and everything still hurts. My shelter, if it exists, has yet to be found. I walk through this storm, unsure when—or if—it will ever pass.

4:55 AM.

When he was with me, I slept well.

I sat on the edge of my bed. My body ached from this endless cycle of sleeping late, waking late, and lying on the couch all day. It was destroying me. I leaned against my bedroom window. There wasn’t a soul outside.

A few minutes later, I went downstairs to the kitchen for a glass of water. Our pictures were still on the fridge door. I hadn’t had the courage to take them down, as Margot suggested.

How could I remove them from there if I couldn’t even remove him from my heart? How could I say, I loved you, if I still did? How could I say, I forgot you, when my mind refused to let go?

I slipped on my slippers, pulled a hooded coat over my nightgown, grabbed a set of keys from my drawer, and left the house.

The cold ruled the night, accompanied by a light drizzle. A brutal cold, where each breath of air felt like razors cutting through my skin.

I knew what I was doing was absurd, but my mind wouldn’t obey me.

I stopped across the street from his house, hiding behind an old parked car. My heart warmed just being there. This was the house of the person who held my heart in his hands.

I stayed there, watching, not knowing for how long. Being there made me feel close to him. I could almost sense him.

Could coincidence be playing with my heart?

His bedroom window opened, and I saw him. My heart pounded, and for a moment, I thought I was going to have a heart attack.

Why wasn’t he sleeping? He had always slept well.

I crouched behind the car, finding a way to keep watching him. Michael leaned against the windowsill and, twice, ran his hand over his chin. He always did that when he was nervous or troubled. He stayed there for a few minutes, head lowered.

Somewhere, a cat meowed, catching his attention. He looked toward the end of the street and then, his eyes moved to the parked car—where I was hiding.

He stared in my direction for a while. I could feel the erratic rhythm of my heart.

He couldn’t see me. It wasn’t possible. But in some way, I felt like he was still drawn to me. I wanted him to still feel something. I needed to believe that.

After a few minutes, Alice appeared behind him, wrapping her arms around him. He looked at her, then turned his gaze back toward me. Toward the car.

Seconds later, Michael closed the window, and the emptiness crashed back into me with brutal force.

I went home, climbed into bed, and waited.

Waited and waited—until I disappeared into a world without dreams.