Like He Would

August 1st 2015

The message chimes in a mere two seconds after midnight. I know because I've been watching the clock. The fact that it arrives isn't a shock because I've been waiting. The fact that I don't immediately open it is the surprising part.

I lie on my side, watching the light on my phone go out, and I count. I count the seconds that I am able to lie there in the dark and not look at my phone. It's hard, but then again, it always is. The first day of every month brings the same message, at the same time. I don't know why he chooses the first of the month. Maybe it's because it's a first: a new beginning. Another chance to begin again.

But we can't begin again because we never were in the first place. At least, not to him.

I reach 374 and stop, arguing with myself that because I've passed 304 (last month's total) that I'm allowed to look now. I don't know why I'm always in such a hurry to read it. It always says the same thing, and I never reply. Well, that's not technically the truth. I always reply . . . I just never hit send. The answer stays there at the bottom of my screen; benign grey text. In that small box I can say whatever I like. I can be angry. I can tell him I miss him. That I want him back. But when it comes down to it, I just can't hit the button that will turn that box from white to green. Or maybe it would be blue. I have no idea what type of phone he has anymore. He used to change them like most people change their underwear. He had that luxury.

My hand darts out and I grab the phone, hitting the home key to power up the screen. His name is there. Not his real name, obviously. That would be stupid. Instead of the name that is a whip to my chest every time it leaves the lips of a stranger, I see "Anna Smith." I'm pretty sure I couldn't have chosen a name that sounded more like a pseudonym. My creativity levels must have been low that day.

I stare at the name, the time since the message came in flicking over to five minutes. I swipe my finger across the screen, noting the sweaty trail it leaves. The message opens up and shows the words I've been expecting.

"Hey. What's up? It's been a while."

A while. Eleven months to be exact. Eight messages in the last eight months, nothing in the three months prior. He dropped off the face of the earth. For me, anyway. Not for everyone else. For everyone else he kept up appearances but for me . . . nothing.

I don't have to scroll up on my phone to see the messages sent in May, June, July. I lost my phone in April and had to replace it so I don't have the older messages anymore, but I didn't need to keep them to remember what he said. They were all exactly the same as this one.

The phone clutched to my chest as if it's a lifeline, for a short while I allow myself to think about him, to wonder what he's doing in this exact moment. Some days I can't stop thinking about him, others I wonder why I ever let him into my heart. Before I met him, I never knew it was possible to look at someone and smile for absolutely no reason other than the fact that they were there. My heart used to race whenever I saw him. My day was made when he crooked a finger and called me to his side, something he often did and the effect did not lessen at all. The time we spent together seemed to go so fast, and yet the months since have dragged by. Is he lying in his bed, waiting for me to reply. Is he alone. I don't think about this for long because the rolling in my stomach that always comes with thinking about him with someone else is more than I can take. The only thing that makes it feel better is remembering that for a time, no matter how short, he was mine. Remembering the way his eyes lit up when I walked into the room. Or when I said that I was ditching class so we could spend more time together.

Most people would say that his eyes were brown. I've seen entire discussion threads on what exact shade they are. Read the thousands of comments until they finally came to a consensus. But they were wrong. I know that they change colour according to his mood. Not in some weird, paranormal type of way, but when he's tired they're like mahogany. When he's excited they turn the same shade as my favourite shade of eyebrow pencil. When he's sad . . . that's the colour I remember the most. Chocolate brown. I hate chocolate brown now, which is good because it means I can't eat the stuff anymore and I've lost at least ten kilos in the months since I last saw him. It isn't healthy, I know, but I can't help it. When he left he took a part of me -- the best part.

I want to hate him. Really, I do. But even though my heart is broken I still know that underneath the bravado, behind the poster-boy image, the designer labels and the chatshow appearances, he is a good man. The best man. The best kind of people you meet in life are those who make you see sunshine where there were once clouds. Who make you feel invincible; like not matter what obstacles come your way, you can overcome them. He was that for me.

But I was a naive girl. I truly believed that what we had was special. I thought we could beat anything life could throw at us. That together we would prove that we weren't just another statistic, or page six news item. That we were in love. It's amazing how much destruction one person can cause. To my credit, loving him wasn't a mistake. Thinking he loved me back was.

Continuing to love him also isn't the best idea, but I can't help it. Real love isn't a tap you can turn on and off. You can't love someone and them *bam* not love them anymore. It doesn't work like that. You can fall in love, but you have to climb out of it. And I'm trying. So hard. Every day feels like an uphill struggle but I'll make it. Somehow.

I close my eyes and imagine what it might be like if he came back to me. If he realised that he'd made a mistake and turned up at my door, banging it with his fists, begging me to let him back into the apartment and into his life. Behind my eyelids I see myself racing from my bedroom, leaping over furniture, fighting my way to the door to throw myself into his arms, and . . .

My eyes open quickly.

No. I need to stop. I promised myself that I would let go. After all, pain only hurts if it's relevant. I put down the phone, waiting until the light went out and darkness swallowed the room again.