Enough | ✔️

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O N E  W E E K  L A T E R

● qυorra neverѕea ●

"I said I don't want to talk about it," I repeat robotically, uninterestedly prodding at my jacket potato with my fork. "It's over now. No use lingering in the past."

Hannah looks at me with sympathetic emerald eyes. Today she's chosen slim-fit trousers and a loose white blouse that complement her figure nicely. The evergreen nature of her smart attire has me in deep thought.

A whole lot of shit can pull the brakes on your life, but other people's lives will carry on. Time cannot stop ticking by, and it most certainly won't stop for you. Life is a race. Against your own goals which seem so far in the distance, against your nightmares which gain on you from behind, but most importantly against yourself. And unfortunately most of the time, you are the only unsurmountable obstacle in your way.

"You have your philosophical face on again. Did you listen to a word I said?"

I look up with a, "What?"

She gives me an unamused look but repeats herself.

"I know you feel as though ignoring your distress with resolve the situation, but a lot of the time, the best thing to do is talk about it. I know he left a week ago, but it's not lingering in the past; it's writing a conclusion to upsetting yet unforgettable parts of your life so you can start living in the present and build yourself up for an exceptional future."

I physically deflate at that, forcing a spoonful of beans and potato in my mouth.

"Well maybe I don't want to have an exceptional future," I counter after I've swallowed. "Maybe I want to lead a miserably meaningless life from now on. Ever think about that?"

Hannah shoots me a look, "Nietzchean, much?"

I roll my eyes at her reference and add my own, "Well, life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale-"

"Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. I get it, Quorra - you're clearly unhappy right now," she interrupts uncharacteristically, "but how am I supposed to help you if you don't want my help?"

She gets up calmly and leaves the canteen, leaving me with the weight of her rhetorical question and my half-eaten jacket potato. 

ㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡㅡ

All work done for the day, I return to my room, closing the door behind me.

It's dead silent: not even a creak in the floor as I walk towards my bed and sit down.

It's cold and dim. A chill skitters down my spine.

The blinds are up, the bluish light casting the room in an ethereal glow.

There's a lot of space here now. A few days ago, someone came to dismantle and remove the other bed in the room. Somebody else needed a replacement. The mattress, frame, covers, and duvet were all swept up. Gone without a trace.

Left more room for the cold.

I went insane the first night I was alone. I threw all the remaining things belonging to him away.

There's no remnant of him anymore. Not a single thing to trigger my memory.

So why so I still remember him? Why can I still hear the velvety smoothness of his voice, the deep rumble of his laughter, the sinful syllables of profanities he claimed to give up? Why can I still see him sitting on the edge of his non-existent bed, his honey-brown eyes, his silky-soft hair? He's gone but will never be gone.