Food for the Heart

When It Crumbles

It's dark and warm, and under here I can't see the state of the apartment—open drawers, empty shelves, bright patches of paint where pictures once hung. It looks like someone vanished, disappeared into thin air. I suppose someone has, Ryan, my Ryan, though not into thin air, just out of my life.

"Come on, Mia, you can't stay in bed forever."

"Yes, I can." I cling to the quilt as my best friend Emily, a short blonde spitfire, attempts to take it away. Emily looks like a porcelain doll next to me with my long legs, tan skin, and jet-black hair, all thanks to my Greek and Mexican roots.

"Mia!" She grunts, leaning her back into it. "You're making it difficult to be your friend."

I ignore her and wrap my leg around the blanket for more leverage. She manages to pull me into a half sitting position. "Life continues," she says, unhooking my fingers. "I promise."

It's been like this for the last three days. Every morning Emily tries to get me up, and every morning her patience with me grows thinner. "Fine!" She lets go, dropping me into the crumpled mass of pillows and yoga mats—because Ryan took the bed too. "Stay under, but so help me, Mia Sanchez, you're making dinner tonight!"

She only calls me by my full name when she's mad. "Do I have to?"

She sighs, and I picture her with her hands on her hips, head titled, blue eyes narrowed into a death stare. I peak out from my cocoon, blinking as I adjust to the harsh light. "You opened the blinds."

She rolls her eyes. "When's the last time you saw daylight?"

I think about it but don't reply, mostly because I'm embarrassed by the answer.

"And yes you have to. I can't cook like you." She unplugs my phone, and sets it on the floor next to a journal I'd thrown at the wall a few days ago, and still haven't picked up—which is unlike me. Actually, this is all unlike me. "Answer when I call," she says, "I'll give you instructions for dinner."

"But, I'll have to get groceries." I picture my organized fridge in a state of overgrown chaos and for some reason it makes the tears return. I start to tremble and Emily crouches beside me, rubbing my back.

"It will get better, I promise. The first step is getting out." She peels back a corner of the blanket, her nose crinkles when she sees the dark wave of hair plastered to my forehead. "And take a shower."

I wipe it away. "I'm that bad?"

She smiles. "I have a surprise for you. I'll bring it to dinner."

"Is it the money you borrowed for your car?"

"You'll see."

"I hate surprises," I mumble into a pillow.

"Liar!" She flashes a crooked little smile, and turns to leave.

I watch her, how her blonde curls bob over her shoulders, and the way she walks with a bounce like she doesn't have a care in the world. When she closes the door I bring my attention to the blue journal on the floor, propped against the wall, blank pages falling open. The gold scrolling letters on the cover read, Dream Journal.

I'd bought it to write our wedding ideas in.

We were together ten years, we never talked about it, but it was the obvious next step. He took my prime years, it was the least he could do.

Who is going to want a used and discarded thirty year old?

Tears gather on my lashes, muddling the blue book. I pull the quilt over my head and surrender to the pain, letting it fill me until it's so much that I can't even cry. Instead I curl into a ball and shake myself to sleep.