Shallow Imitations

chapter thirty-six

For the next few days, I ignore every call and text. There are so many things I have to do. Eleonora wants a whole run-down of everything that happened that day. I convinced her that we should wait until the weekend before having to talk about this. The day we came back from the prison visit, she called me twice. I answered the second time giving her brief details. "It's not something I can talk about over the phone," I said, hoping that she would let it slide until I've gotten a better understanding of the situation.

I would go through this whole thing once more for El before letting myself forget about it completely. Kal hasn't called, which is the only thing on my mind right now. Atlas's ending is yet to ravel itself and Kal is slowly slipping away from me.

So when Eleonora says, "I'll come over at six with DVDs and snacks," I couldn't say no. She can tell from my tone that I'm not doing well. "You can pick the movie and I'll make your favorite dip for the chips, but only if you agree to tell me everything first."

I agreed. She had a few other suggestions that I said I would take into consideration, like calling Olive and getting my job back. I would defiantly call Olive soon, but only when I'm well enough to go out with her like normal. It doesn't seem so far-fetched. But my job . . . . I don't know if I'm ready for that yet.

I've had a lot of time for myself, but now I need to recover from this incident. Like having to heal all over again.

When I first started working there, I remember everyone looking up at me. I was highly paid, I was good at my job, and I had a good relationship with the boss. We were almost friends. He'd call me over to his office and my co-workers would get nervous, but then I'd realize that all he wanted was to show me pictures of his newborn, as if I'm the first friend he can think of to show these two.

In last few months of me working there., all I saw in their eyes was pity. Not admiration but whispers of my past. "It's not the first time she faces death," they would say. "You know, her parents are dead too," they would gossip as I passed them in the hall. "Poor thing was only sixteen then, and now this."

When Atlas first died, I took a week off before going back to work. I tried drowning myself in the continuous cycle. I would come early and sit in my desk reading. On days I didn't have much work to do, I would pace around my office or beg someone to give me something to do. I walked around seeing if anyone needed any help. I took pleasure in helping Frank from Human Resources fix the printed. He's almost intimidated by technology. Sometimes I would pace in front of the printers, checking to see if there are any jammed papers. I'm sure I did this more than once a week. They were glad to get working printers at first, but then they started realizing that I wasn't okay.

It was only when I snapped at my boss that I was given a leave of absence. At least that's what my boss called it. The word 'let go' is more suitable. While taking a year off work isn't completely unheard of, I'm not sure going back there is a good idea. I've already embarrassed myself in front of everyone I know.

That day I was so frustrated that I dared yell at my boss. I wanted him to give me more work. Was this so hard to ask? Staying up late in the office wasn't enough. I needed more. The lack of sleep was evident in my eyes. Thankfully, he had sympathized with me. He warned me a few times before that I may be overworking myself, that I should take some time to recover.

I knew recovery wasn't an option. I would never be the same. And if I left work, I wouldn't want to come back.

My boss is only in his early thirties. He's one of my few friends that Atlas liked. They met several times and he invited us to dinner once to meet his family. When he heard that Atlas passed away, he rushed to my aid. He stayed with me through the whole process, especially knowing that I don't have parents to support me through it. Once Atlas's mom gave us planning his funeral, he guided me on what directions I should take. I'm still grateful for that, which is why I can't come back.

As she promised, Eleonora came at six. She had snacks and movies to watch. There were new movies that I've been meaning to watch and then there were ones we've watched a million times. All I want right now is for Kal to be here next to me, arguing over which movie is better, holding my hand.

I miss him.

It's only been a few days since I've seen him, but the aching is too much and it's too familiar. There's another cafe across the street from my apartment. I've been there twice so far as an attempt to get my mind off Kal, but it's not working.

Every time I think of him I remember everything that happened. "I saw you, you know," Brett's voice echoes in my head. I already know what picture it was. Atlas was an old soul. He kept a Polaroid of us in his wallet. It was an old picture. I was twenty. We were in college then, sharing an apartment while all my friends enjoyed the full college experience, dorms, parties, and everything else. We both agreed that we didn't want that. All I wanted was to stare at Atlas and count his eyelashes over and over, admiring his brown eyes, touching his soft skin.

El was too busy with her friends at that time, and we didn't see each other much. It wouldn't be long until I broke her away from all of that.

Now, he sits across from me on the floor, leaning against the sofa. I don't know why, but we always preferred sitting on the floor. We're both dressed in pajamas. Eleonora decided to stay over tonight. She has a small bag placed in the corner of the room. This girl always over-packed. She brought her own shampoo as if I don't have one of those. It's just one night.

"What movie do you wanna watch?" I ask.

"Luna," she says, raising an eyebrow. "You promised you would tell me everything."

My lips parted, but nothing came out. No matter how hard I try, the words won't escape my lips. I sigh instead, wishing Atlas had left me with an ounce of courage in his wake.

And then I cried again.

El held me close like Mom used to whenever one of us wasn't feeling well. She held me tighter than ever, a few tears escaping her own eyes as well.

When we finished crying, we put on The Sound of Music, something we often watched with our parents, and when the movie finished, we cried all over again.