ACHES

18. november

I was always waiting, now. My phone was always nearby, in case he called. He'd always text me when he landed, just with the name of the city he was in, "Bucharest.", "Paris (again).", "Singapore.". I'd look up the time distance between us, and predict when he would call. I lived by his schedule, now. It was only a half life, but better than a life without him.

It was around the time he usually called, and I was ready. I kept a bottle of his wine by the couch, sipping it as we talked, so that by the time we hung up, the edges of my vision would crawl inwards, and I would fall asleep on the couch. No missing him, no heartache or emptiness when his voice didn't fill my head any longer. Just restless, ugly sleep, until I was too thirsty and sore to sleep any longer. I would dream we were together, his thumb in the middle of my lower lip, then wake up with a sob stuck in my throat. I'd skip my thumb over the stupid scar on my hip, reminding myself we were real. And we had been together before.

If I woke up in the morning, I made myself eggs with cherry tomatoes, and plain toast. I would sip my coffee and look out the window. If I woke up in the afternoon, I would sit on the balcony with a glass of water and sunbathe. I didn't think about much when I woke up. I just felt the edges of the hole around my heart.

Then, I would take my walk. I'd see my mother briefly, and tell her about my dreams. Then I'd cut citrus with Jenna at the bar, and beg her to tell me about her shift the prior evening. The way she dryly recounted ridiculous stories made me shake with laughter, until she sent me home so she could open the bar. I'd get two coffees on the way home, and sit on the couch until he called. I'd toss his full, cold cup in the morning.

"Hi Matty," I said, smiling into my fist. I curled into the phone at my ear, waiting for his usual response.

"Sweetheart," he drew out the word in his sing-song smiling tone. It was a relief, a praise, a sigh. It was my name.

"Easy day?" I asked, as I always did.

"Very easy. Amazing, actually." He laughed, "The crowd was nice. Enthusiastic."

"Must feel nice. The attentiveness." I sipped from my glass.

"Mm," he hummed into his glass. "Sure."

"Have I said how happy I am for you?"

"I know, darling." Something rustled in the background. He was probably getting into bed. "And tell me about your day."

"Not much to say," I filled my glass. "Bit lonely today. But I don't want to ruin the mood."

"Three months I've been gone," he whispered. "It's alright to be lonely."

"Yeah," was all I managed. It was always hard not to cry when he was so sweet, and so far away.

"You want your surprise?"

I laughed, waiting for him to elaborate.

"I'm surprised you haven't found it yet," he coughed. "You were always so curious about my notebooks."

I gasped, "What do you mean?"

"Did you go through them?" he asked, "I always assumed you looked through them when I showered."

I paused, picking at my cuticles. "I wanted to."

"Well, sweetheart, I'm going to bed a bit early. But check my bedside table."

"Okay," I said slowly, jittery with anticipation.

"Goodnight, darling. Love you, love you." "Love you."

And he was gone. I wasn't even buzzed, so his absence spilled inkily from my chest to my hands. It was a rush of cold in a warm room. The steel wind after rain.

I got up, bumping my knee into the coffee table. My wine glass toppled over, shattering and bleeding over the hardwood floors. I cursed, but was too curious about his surprise to care.

I sat on his side of my bed, rubbing my knee. My fingers were still, waiting for permission to open his drawer. I closed my eyes, and pulled it open quickly. The only thing inside was his black Moleskine.

I took it out, running my fingers over the edges of the soft cover. The silky pages. I winced, realizing how much of him was this notebook. It was always with him. Seeing it made me crave his lips on my cheek. His fingerprints were still barely visible on the black cover.

I opened it. The first page was blank, but the next had three words, scrawled in his always-panicked, busy handwriting.

For you, sweetheart.

I dragged my fingers over the etched paper, and I could hear the scratch of his pen. I turned the page.

I met you. You kissed me. We are lonely.

I smirked, reminiscing about the blackout.

You've been in my head all day. You said so many honest, drunken words. About your parents, about your life. I can't wait to meet you. The diamonds in the bracelet are real. I'm sorry I lied.

"Fuck you," I laughed, glancing at the starry bracelet that was always on my wrist. I knew they were real. I flipped to the next page.

You're so beautiful today. I'm obsessed with your voice, your humor. And you laugh so easily. I know it's new, and I know it's infatuation, but I can't stop thinking about your mouth and my skin. I feel you all the time. I wonder what your apartment is like. I saw you watching me from the window.

I closed my eyes, tears wetting my cheeks. I couldn't read this today. I quickly rifled through the pages, seeing how many he had written in. He had completely filled the notebook. Each page seemed to be a day. I shook my head, ready to put the notebook back in his drawer, when a small slip of paper slid out from the pages. I picked it up. The front of it read November, in his script. I turned it over.

When pain flows through your heart and your bones

Don't worry, darling

I'm here with you.