As he slowly went away, and the smell of gasoline settled in my nostrils, I wondered whether anything was ever going to be okay again.
His smell, the way his face lit up whenever he saw me, the way his ears twitched when he was lying. It was gone. All of it. And it would never be mine again.
He was going off to get married, to some girl he didn’t know the last name of.
He didn’t love her, that’s what he told me. He said he loved me. But it wasn’t enough. If he loved me enough, he wouldn’t have held my face in his hands like it was made of glass for the last time. He wouldn’t have hugged me and whispered empty sorrys in my ear. He wouldn’t have kissed my forehead for the last time, before finally going away.
He wouldn’t have left me forever, broken and alone, left to pick up the pieces of me that remained.
I slowly trudged home, knowing it was pointless and futile to stand there and wait for him to come back and tell me that he was sorry and would never leave me again.
My mother clutched a wet dish towel in her hand, and looked at me with that worried look in her eyes, her forehead wrinkling.
She moved closer, asking whether I was okay.
I didn’t reply. I couldn’t.
“Sophia,” she said.
I closed my eyes, as the memories flooded back to me, one by one.
“Sophia!” he yelled. “What are those?”
I stared back at him. My secret was finally out.
“Answer me, Sophie!” he said.
I didn’t answer.
After a few long moments, he walked up to me and snatched the bottle from me.
“Fluoxetine? You’re taking antidepressants, Sophia?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft.
I didn’t reply. What could I possibly say?
He set the bottle down and held my small, dainty hands in his big, callused ones.
“You can do this, Sophie. We can do this,” he said, a sad smile on his face.
And together, we threw away all of the pills, one by one, the plinking sound each one made when it landed at the bottom clenching my heart further.
“I can’t,” I said, and pushed him away, needing those pills. They were my sanity.
He was stubborn, and didn’t let me go, as I struggled pathetically to get to my sanity.
Eventually, I stopped resisting and hung limp in his arms, giving up.
“I can’t,” I repeated, this time much softer and inaudible.
He cradled my head in his hand, and kissed my forehead.
With his help, I eventually overcame my addiction of the anti-depressants.
Slowly, I became happy, without the help of pills, and I felt for the first time that I could actually depend on someone instead of those pills.
The memory ended, and so did my momentary happiness that appeared only when I thought of him.
My mother was gone, but I could hear the heart-wrenching sobs that came from her bedroom.
I normally would go and comfort her, cry a little myself, and end the day with a few chick flicks.
This time though, this time, I wouldn’t.
I couldn’t.
