Knowing Me, Knowing You | (S/P)

Epilogue

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Nathaniel

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March 22nd, 2018

"Is that all you got?" I drape the back of my hand across my forehand, swiping off the small drops of sweat. "Grow a pair and kick like you mean it." My words have the desired meaning as Roger launches himself towards me, his right foot landing on the left side of my torso.

I stumble back before regaining my balance, putting my hands in front of me defensively. "Harder, little pansy." I murmur under my breath to irk him some more, swinging left before my fist meets his ribcage, two blows in a row, but he's quick to direct a hard blow to my jaw that I'm unable to dodge. I fall back onto the ground, taking off my boxing gloves and holding my face in agony.

"Hey man, are you okay?" Roger stands breathless in front of me, a shadow of concern clouding his face.

"Yeah, I think you just broke my jaw."

"He had it coming, he only had himself to blame." I snigger at his sing-song voice, taking his hand to help me stand up. "Honestly Rowlins, you've got some anger issues right there."

"Fuck off." I push him to the side as I walk past him, picking my towel from the floor and putting it around my neck. I grab a bottle of water from my bag, but before I can give it a sip, Roger, who has caught up with me, throws it with a slap of the hand to the ground, spilling all of it.

I turn menacing towards him, my hands in fists. I hate when he's being this childish and a straight-out stupid wag.

"You have to figure your shit out, dude. I mean it." He gives me one last cold stare before he exits the training room.

I don't have anger issues. I have stress which is very different. I ditched my regular sessions at the gym a few weeks ago and decided to give kickboxing a try, which by far, is doing the job. It took me a week of being an unyielding pain in Roger's ass to convince him to train with me. I don't think he's coming back after today.

If I were him, I wouldn't go anywhere near me, too. I was called to Office of Students Affairs last week. I felt like a spoiled child when I realized that the reason that I was there was because students had complaints about me, and no the other way around.

'Impulsive, unreliable, distracted, yells a lot.' Well, what could I possibly say in my defense? I was pissed off and I had to let it out with someone. I'm aware of how decidedly unprofessional that is, but I'm way past caring.

Deciding that I'm running back home, I'm quick to put on my sweatshirt before hitting the pavement on the street.

Today is her birthday.

I didn't know, she never told me. I never asked. But on my way here I logged into Facebook and I saw a post by Abigail, a big chocolate cake with sparkling candles in front of a smiling Alexia. That was the first time that I saw her face in almost two months, and I'm glad a smile was on it.

But not on mine –not since she left.

I knew that I shouldn't have told her anything, I should have figured things on my own before breaking it to her. I should have known she has going to get scared, I should have known that she was going to push me away.

And despite knowing it, that didn't prevent the words she snarled at me that night to crawl into my chest like venomous thorns. It didn't stop me from smashing the bottle of whiskey against the wall after she left, nor all the row of curses that followed.

I tell myself at least once a day that I ought to stop thinking about it. Stop thinking about her. It has been godsend the surprising fact that I haven't seen her but once in campus, and the only time that I did I turned on my heels and walked away from her, because the only thing that I could think of when I saw her was how poorly she talked about our relationship, of how ragely mad it made me.

I stop in a red light, bending forwards and clutching my knees to catch my breath, not sure if the chocking sensation is due to the running or the object of my thoughts.

Why Alex, why?

Knowing her was like uncovering a life that I was unaware that existed. It was discovering love altogether. All that existed before her fades in comparison to how bright and meaningful everything was...after.

All the light that she brought was eclipsed by a dark cloud of anger and helplessness the moment that she walked out of my door.

My lungs are burning when I reach my building. I rub my temples as I wait until the elevator reaches my floor, stopping to grab some mail from the floor before walking inside my apartment. I have tried to stay out of here as much as possible, the night classes that I despised giving at the beginning of the semester being now a welcome distraction.

I can feel her absence in every corner.

My gaze lands on the jigsaw puzzle scattered on the coffee table.

It's a representation of The Kiss by Gustav Klimt, and although not even half of it is completed, it is +2000 pieces so I'm partially proud of myself for getting his far. I bought it last January, and it was supposed to be a Valentine's Day gift for Alexia –the moment that I saw it on the shopwindow I knew that she'd love it. Of course, I never got the chance to give it to here.

I pick up a small yellow piece, taking me about ten seconds to find its place down in the middle. That must be a personal record.

After all the miles we walked together, I refused to believe that we were reduced to bad timing and that the coin had landed on the wrong side.

But that recently acquired knowledge doesn't make it any less demanding. It doesn't make missing her any easier. It doesn't do anything to stop the bittersweet feeling in my chest every time I see someone that looks even remotely like her. It doesn't do anything to alleviate the pang of remorse that follows when in the middle of the night I start feeling like I hate her.

Loss. No matter how hard we try. Sometimes, love is loss.

No.

Love was visiting Mason's grave. Love was solving jigsaw puzzles in the middle of the night. It was Alexia forgiving Eloise. It was our first night together. Love was matching Halloween costumes, and walks under the snow. Love was white and yellow peonies hidden under the table. It was the sizzling honey of Alexia's eyes. Love was using the last bit of strength left to protect those we love. Love was not loss. Love was her.

No matter how much I ramble and deviate about hidden agendas and self-interest, love and time and fate, no matter how hard I try to convince myself that she meant every hurtful word that she said, I know that that couldn't be farther away from the truth.

'Love itself is what is left over, when being in love has burned away. Doesn't sound very exciting, does it?'

I refuse to believe that the colliding of our lives was due to an astonishing, coincidental event. That what we had was resulted inconsequential.

And although right now I can't fathom a way in which we will be able to get back together, I'm cleaving to a thread of hope of a someday, somehow, maybe...