𝐄𝐏𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋 | g. w

52. the storm inside

I wake in the middle of the night to a loud rumbling noise. The storm raging outside has the lights in my flat flickering on and off, and it seems a direct reflection of what's going on in my head.

Chaos.

It feels as if an invisible hand has plunged into my chest, twisting, and tearing away every vestige of joy and hope. The remnants of what was left of my old self, dispersed into the ether.

The ache for him lingers deep within, a persistent throb gnawing at my soul. The situation I've somehow found myself in feels like a cruel joke, and I've yet to be filled in on the punch line.  Just when I thought I had pieced together the fragments of my life into something resembling coherence, the foundation cracked, crumbling beneath me, and I plummeted into the dark abyss.

Assisting Mr and Mrs Monroe at the cafe proved to be a giant help in my mental health improving.
It bestowed a sense of purpose in me, a flicker of significance amid the engulfing darkness, allowing me to reclaim my independence in a way. Their presence provided a semblance of stability and routine amidst the chaos that was my past, a lifeline anchoring me to something akin to normalcy.

(...)

Mr. Monroe's eyes softens further, reflecting a blend of empathy and concern. "If you feel like talking about it, I'm here to listen. Sometimes sharing the burden lessens the weight." His gentle words strike a chord within me, resonating with an unspoken longing for someone to understand. How can I articulate my emotions? The heartbreak, the longing, the suffocating feeling that engulfs me? How can I share this burden with someone?

I glance around the familiar surroundings of the book cafe, taking in the comforting sight of bookshelves lined with stories untold, inviting armchairs that continue to cradle my moments of solace, and the faint aroma of brewing coffee permeating the air. These tangible comforts juxtapose against the intangible void that envelops my restless soul. The darkness that has me questioning everything else about my life.

Summoning courage, I allow the words to trickle out, hesitant at first, like raindrops on a drought-stricken land. "I thought I'd found something real," I murmur, my voice betraying the ache within. "Something enduring. But it crumbled like sand slipping through my fingers." Mr. Monroe nods, his eyes conveying understanding without interjecting with hasty solutions or unsolicited advice. His silent presence feels like a balm to the rawness of my emotions. "And I must've been so dumb not to see it for what it truly was. We'd been friends for so long that once we admitted to each other what we'd known ourselves forever, it was as if nothing was of relevance anymore. We'd had our chance, our time, and we'd blown it. So if we stumbled our way through any type of romantic relationship, we risked ruining what we had before." I exhale deeply. "I was just naive enough to think it would work this time. That all that distance we had between us for so long would somehow finally be worth it. That risking it all would make more sense now that we knew how it felt to be away from each other. But I guess I was in the wrong, I guess I was the only one thinking that way..."

"It's tough when you invest your heart and soul into something, believing it's the foundation of your future, only to watch it collapse," he responds, his tone carrying the weight of experience. It has me wondering if he's ever been in the same situation as me, if he and Mrs Monroe have ever been through something similar. Perhaps they have.

He gently encourages me to share, to unravel the tangled web of emotions that has ensnared my spirit. With hesitant words and trembling vulnerability, I tell him everything. As the narrative unfolds, the floodgates of pent-up emotions burst open. The cascade of words is an outpouring of anguish, of unmet expectations, and the gnawing uncertainty of the future. Mr. Monroe listens attentively, offering occasional nods and words of empathy that provides comfort, even though the situation feels hopeless.