It was 4 a.m.
He jolted awake, no doubt escaping from another bizarre cavalcade of nightmarish proportions.
He sat upright, pulse racing, blue eyes like rain darting around the unlit room. There was no danger here, only minuscule motes of light that waltzed their way across the golden sunbeams peeking behind the closed shutters.
He sighed in relief as a cool shiver danced down his back. The cold January air filled his lungs and the faint crackling of sore bones filled his ears as he stretched.
Rolling over, he reaches for his phone. Same old texts from the same old people. Nothing from her. But then again, why would there be? He did all he could to salvage things, and she wanted no part in it. So he would write about it. Maybe it helped. Maybe it didn’t. He supposed he would write about her again.
Rising quietly from his bed as to not wake his family, he crept silently to the kitchen to brew a cup of green tea; his favorite. Something about the way the subtle flavor of longjing opened his senses made it a clear choice for this morning. He waited patiently as the water drew to a boil, and poured his cup. The steam sprawled lazily from the emerald surface of the tea into the cold kitchen as he turned off the kettle, and he snuck back into his room.
He kicked himself for leaving his computer on overnight; he hated sleeping near electronics, but made an exception for his computer. The familiar hum of the fan greeted him as he gently pressed the power button. A long sigh escaped his green tea soaked lips, and he moved the mouse over to his browser, and opened up his blog.
I can’t believe people still enjoy this crap, he mused.
It hadn’t been long since he started his blog, but he had amassed a sizable following. He really only made it because he had wanted to write about her and avoid the criticisms he was always met with; what not to say, how to say it, don’t say too much because it made her feel bad for being a terrible friend; there really was no end to it.
I hope she never finds this one. She would hate to read the things I’ve put here.
But there was some part of him that wanted her to find it, too. He moved his cursor over to the “Write” tab and clicked on it, and stared at a fresh, white page. His hands hovered over the keyboard, floating from key to key waiting for a thought about her to form.
He waited some more.
He waited a bit longer.
He reached for his tea and noticed it had grown cold.
For the first time in over a year, he had nothing to say about her. Not a single word would present itself to him. He had written nearly 500 pieces describing every possible feeling there was to feel for her, and yet, in the quiet still of this Monday morning, nothing came. Not pain, not regret, not hurt, not anger, not joy, not warmth. Nothing.
He shut down his computer and took the last sip of his tea. It was sweeter than the previous sips because the honey and collected at the bottom.
He let a muffled laugh slip between his honey drenched lips.
I have more in common with this cup of tea than I ever had with her, he giggled.
When we begin our process of healing it’s uncomfortable, hot, and bitter. We take sips of it at a time because if we try to heal too fast, we end up hurting ourselves even further. Over time, the process becomes easier to handle and we can take larger sips. When we finally reach the end of our healing, we are awarded with a rather sweet, almost honey-like realization that we are better for having suffered and taken the time to fully heal.
He turned off his computer and tip-toed back to his chilly bed. He laid there, eyes exploring the ceiling as thoughts entered his mind and left in much the same way. Eyelids heavy, he rested them for but a moment, and was off to sleep.