Shallow Imitations

chapter five

In the morning, I get ready as if I have a motive. I wake up at six although I've been up all night thinking. For the next hour and a half, I lie in bed, watching the hours tick by. There's a clock on the wall near the window. It doesn't have numbers, so it's hard to tell right away, but I know it's too early for me to be awake. The bed is warm, and the room is dark. The wind makes a whooshing sound, making the window rattle that makes my skin crawl. I pretend there's a person lying next to me. Anyone. Just a soul helping me warm the sheets. Comforting me.

In my mind, it's Atlas. His arm is on my shoulder. He always knows when I'm awake. He says he can't sleep knowing that I'm restless, as I often am when there's a lot on my mind. Pulling me closer, he rests his head in the nape of my neck. Our faces pressed together and I can feel his breathing. It makes me giggle, and he smiles too.

"I love you," he would say.

Imagining him makes me more sad than comforted. I feel like I'm on the verge of breaking, even after all this time. It doesn't matter how long it's been. I miss him terribly and I can still feel his finger stroking my cheek. Soft and tender. He's always so gentle when he touches me.

Eventually, I force myself out of bed just as the sun takes a seat in its rightful throne.

I take a thirty-minute shower where I brush my teeth under running water. I stand there for an unusually long amount of times thinking of nothing in particular.

There's one thought circling through my head, thinking about it so consistently last night gave e a tension headache. Do I even have the right to miss him? All we are to each other is a body to comfort the other. The notion is so strange. Whenever I need him, we kiss and cuddle and make life more bearable. People can do that with literally anyone even when it doesn't mean so much. And eventually—at least that's what everyone says—the thought of him will matter less enough for me to start over with something else.

Great. Now I'm feeling nauseous.

I put on a t-shirt while still little wet. It doesn't even matter. I have no plans for the end of the year, even. On the far end of my closet is my favorite pair of sweatpants. They're soft and comfortable and make me feel a bit better. I slip them on along with some fuzzy shoes. Most my clothes lack color. This has nothing to do with Atlas. I just think my skin tone suits darker colors, but my friends are only noticing it now because gray on gray along with my depressing thoughts and reclusive tendencies cause a lot of concern.

My phone beeps. El is reminding me that she's coming over tonight with my two friends, Olive and Wren. I've known them both since high school and they're the only people I still talk to. I stopped talking to my friends from college after the funeral. El tries to come see me as often as possible in order to ease my back into a normal lifestyle. I admire the effort.

Breakfast is pretty much the same. I'm not good at making pancakes or anything elaborate—which, to be honest, is great as I'm starting to fill out in the hip area—instead, I opt for oats and cranberries with a bit of low-fat milk. I eat while watching YouTube videos. You know, those late-night things where a man in a suit stands and makes lame, repetitive jokes about political subjects. I eat that stuff up. The dishes go in the dishwasher; the only expensive thing we invested in. I sit on the living room sofa and listen to the ruckus the machine makes as it attempts to clean the plates.

I turn on the TV while waiting for my hair to dry. As I do this, I grab the laptop and check my emails. There's not much new. My boss's assistants sent me an email saying that I can come back at any time. They filled my spot when my paid leave was over and I never gave a reply, but whoever it is apparently isn't competent enough. I know they want me back because I was always organized and did everything on time (and as well as possible). The rest of the emails are spam or notifications from accounts I've made in websites I forgot I joined, so I scan the New York Times online before turning my laptop off and watching reruns of my favorite shows.

I sit there and look at the time every once in a while, hoping it can get to twelve sooner so that I can make my lunch. I'm already imagining what to make. A cheese sandwich with dried tomatoes and maybe coffee. I haven't had any for three days, so I earned it. El thinks coffee is the reason I get so many headaches, but she's not the best person to get advice from, anyway.

This would seem like a regular day to me, except with all that I have weighing on my mind. It would be so much easier to pretend it's not real. It doesn't seem real. These things don't happen to people, and they certainly don't happen to me.

But . . . I never thought that I'd be the girl who sits on the couch all day scouring for a new show to get sucked in I thought that I'd never stop writing and making goals, excited about every idea even if I know it'll never end up in print. I didn't think I'd be unemployed and unmotivated. Never in my life did I think I'd suffer so many deaths of people so close to me. Now I go from being admired for my determination and persistence to being pitied for failing.

The girl whose parents died.

The girl who's boyfriend died.

Look at her.

She's always so sad.

She'll never be the same.

She's depressed.

How awful. The thought alone makes me want to cringe. That everyone around me always feels bad. Though not bad enough to stop gossiping, of course.

What has come of me? I sit alone all day. Is this what Atlas would've wanted? When we're together, I was actually the more social one. I'd strike up a conversation with people, and, like a proud mom, tell them about Atlas and all the cool things he's done. He'd look away, feeling shy and smiling softly.

I miss that so much. I miss his smile and the way he fingers always drum on the steering wheel when he's thinking, unconsciously making a tune. He sings to musicals when we drive. Wicked is his favorite. He knows every line. I love that he's so shy that he'd never sing in front of anyone ever, but he never hesitates with me. I'm the only person he's comfortable around, and just knowing that I make him feel safe warms my heart.

I don't realize I'm crying until I hear a sob escape my lips.

Today is not a good day.