The Love You Want

4.

I curled up on the couch that night, finally alone overnight for the first time in a while. When Doyun had texted to say he couldn't come over that night, I'd thought that maybe I'd feel lonely again. But the night had always been my favorite time of the day, and a time when I really, really wanted to be alone. Even with Hanuel dead, I couldn't feel lonely at night. I had a cup of tea in my hands. Somehow, I'd run out of all my favorite teas, and all that was left in the cabinet was lemon, Hanuel's favorite. The citrus was always too sour for me, but Hanuel insisted that it was what kept him awake.

The irony actually made me grin, which felt weird.

I opened the curtains just slightly to admire the streetlight outside. Hanuel had always found it annoying and complained endlessly about it until we bought blackout curtains, but after we had to leave for a few nights because the apartment needed to be fumigated, he admitted that he had a difficult time sleeping without the golden edges of that streetlight around the edges of the curtains. I had no idea what time it was, I hadn't looked at a clock since I had been waiting for Jean at the coffee shop.

It was late spring now, the sun not setting until long after I thought it should be gone, plunging the world into a perfect, dark night. A long, lonely summer, my least favorite season, stretched out in front of me like that road with the split in it. I could feel the start of a headache behind my forehead, and I knew I should do something about it-- taking two acetaminophen pills, drinking a glass of almond milk, putting a cool glass against my forehead, anything. But I didn't do anything, knowing I would regret it.

I had opened the window, which was unusual for me, but it was warm inside and it felt like a waste to let the air conditioning turn on. There must have been flowers growing nearby, because the breeze smelled like fabric softener sheets.

I wondered if maybe I should use the summer to write a novel. Nothing else would come of it if I didn't try to make it a creative season. I knew my few summers of fun -- spending my afternoons putting on makeup and picking out outfits, and the nights dancing on beaches or at a rooftop bar, sweaty and laughing and trying to decide if I actually liked daiquiris, were over. They only happened because of Hanuel. I didn't even really like going, which is why I took one weekend each month off to watch movies or read or write out outlines for stories.

I don't know why I only ever wrote outlines. I would have made a good screenwriter, if only I could get past the whole 'you can't explain a character's internal thoughts, so you have to show their feelings through speech and action' rule. I thought that was a pretty annoying rule, given how many movies had bad narration.

Or maybe that was why there was a rule.

For a moment, I forgot what I was waiting for, or why I was feeling sad. But like clockwork, I remembered, and I felt bad for having forgotten. Maybe that was what happened after the eternal crying: the flames ate away the edges of the picture, but also took the color out, leaving just a black-and-white memory that sometimes faded to the background, surrounded by all the white noise.

A weight settled next to me on the couch, and I sighed, still staring at the streetlight.

"Hannie," I whispered. "Why are you here?"

I would have liked to have known his answer. I would have died to hear his voice, or feel his arms-- his real arms-- around me, to feel his breath on my skin. It was a damn shame -- when I had Hanuel before, I'd wanted for so much more. A possibility of a writing career, a wardrobe of fabulous clothes, a better apartment, a better treatment plan.

Now that Hanuel was gone, he was the only thing I wanted. I'd give up everything I had -- my job, all my clothes, the apartment, just to have him back. Whatever happened to us, we could survive it together. Even if we had to live on the streets, or had to face the shame of going back to live with our parents, we could have done it. I'd rip out my hair and tear off my nails if it meant I could have him back.