Baby Steps

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b e g i n 

IT WAS SCORCHING that day.

The rays of sunlight shone harsh and bright against the tinted window, leaving a soft euphoric atmosphere around the sweltering heat of Laguna Beach's horizon. Having only been to the beach a number of times I can count with my fingers, I've never been fond of seeing tides, big to small, crash against the shore over and over again, even when it was only nearing autumn. It was always the cloudy days and wintery nights I'd look forward to.

This wasn't anything I could have ever imagined nor something I ever expected.

When I had woken up from my sleepless slumber earlier this morning, my lids fluttered open to an unfamiliar space. Gone was the white comforter I'd call home, along with the grey curtains that drooped against the windows, both that embraced my love for minimalism. Instead, I was surrounded by a familiar yet cringey set-up, comprised with yellow walls and sheets in a revolting shade of indigo.

Nonetheless, I dragged my slipper-clad feet to the bathroom, determined to exfoliate away even the slightest tinge of displeasure that had snuck into my system. Still, even the faucet felt strange. Rather than the refreshingly cold water trickling down my hands, I was hailed by the strange feeling of warm water, coming from the lagging cooler.

The entire space looked foreign, and, yet, impalpable.

Then again, it was foolish of me to believe that things would be different.

As blatant as that sounded, it was the hard truth. Even if I hoped my situation was a blessing in disguise, I'd only be misleading myself. As horrible and as brutal as it seemed, it was true that this one particular man destroyed me.

And that's not an understatement.

Mr. Oliver Hoang may be well known as an influential and, possibly, one of the youngest, but most influential surgeons within the past decade. At the age of twenty-two, he was the most trusted doctor of Bearcrest Hospital, with his accomplished field of work at such an early age and signature dimpled smile. He may wear his black rimmed glasses and an understanding demeanor even under pressure. But he'd never been a good boyfriend - not that he tried to be one. My memories of him were, in the beginning, as positive as I could grasp onto, until his brutal personality became more evident within our last three months together of our entire three year relationship. Severely tight lipped and a cold shouldered were his revealing key traits as work days became longer, and nights in bed with him became more distant.

Letting Oliver Hoang go was one thing. He'd already disappeared anyway, and I couldn't try patching things up with him even if my broken heart wanted to. But forgetting what he did?

I'd need to rewire my brain for that.

If only there was some way to wipe a person permanently from your conscious. And your soul.

As I trudged downstairs, noticing that no one else was home yet, I released a sigh of relief. Leaning for the remote on the chaise, I quickly muted the volume and enabled captioning so I could still make sure no one would catch me watching the news, again.

It wasn't the greatest thing to do but, truthfully, it was one of those idiotic things that I did and couldn't stop doing. Whatever that was said about him ached, but I couldn't stop reading the captions of the reporter's script about why or how Oliver had abruptly vanished, as if into thin air, nor could I avoid watching the crowd of college girls on the news report circling around Andaz, his favorite hideout spot, and where he was speculated to be last seen at.