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She's gone. And I couldn't do anything at that moment but watch her leave. How could I just let her leave like that? What else could I have said to make her change her mind? I should've said more— fuck, something. She needs to know. Even now, seven days after it all went down, my thoughts are running a mile a minute and Lavender hasn't answered or returned any of my calls or texts. My mind continues to replay that fucked up scene over and over again.
Watching her beautiful face... the tears... after she opened that letter, I would give anything to go back in time and prevent that from happening.
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The silence in this house is suffocating me. Everywhere I go, every room... it echoes and pulsates with memories of us and the constant reminder of what I fucked up... what I lost.
I had the sextape we made the night before she left, constantly replaying it on the flatscreen, not to get off or anything like that. But just to see her beautiful face— to watch how we absorbed each other passionately.
Whenever our bodies connected, whenever we made love, when we fucked... a special part of us collided together in ways I can't even describe. She's my heart, my soul and I need her.
I never meant for her to find out like this, to shatter her world like I did. I thought I was doing the right thing... thought that I was protecting her by hiding the truth, but all I did was make everything worse and when she left out that door, a part of me left with her.
With nothing on but my briefs and a tank top, I lay in my dimly lit living room, looking at the hole that I punched into the wall after she left, and sinking into the depths of my couch with nothing but darkness hanging over me. I haven't gone upstairs at all, haven't showered, the house is a mess, and unopened mail is scattered across the coffee table.
The curtains are drawn, shutting out the world and making the room even more gloomy than I already feel. The only light in here is the glow from the screen of my phone, hitting my face as I look through my call logs and messages, hoping that while I was in the bathroom or the kitchen, that maybe I possibly missed one of her calls or texts.
Nothing.
I hear tires lightly screech outside and I jump up and head to the front door. A small part of me shows excitement, opening the door and thinking that maybe she would come back to at least talk to me. It wasn't her.
Only my mother, Joeline, rushing out of her Rolls Royce and heels clicking across the cobblestone roundabout as she tries to scan my face. She probably wanted to check on me since I wasn't returning anyone's calls.
