Remembering Sunday

It was still dark outside, considering the fact that it was well past two in the morning. And yet he woke up from those dreams—or nightmares, rather—that seemed to haunt his memories while he slept. Rubbing his eyes, he remembered the amount of alcohol he downed the previous night and the pounding headache he was bound to get when he woke—in fact, he could hardly remember a time recently when he was sober—and the effects of the alcohol made it too difficult for him to attempt to recall a memory of him and his sobriety.

Knowing this, and also knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to get back to sleep anytime soon, he lazily got out of bed and stumbled to his closet, clumsily pulling on his clothing, before sliding on his shoes and slipping out into the dark, only having his memories of this place and the street lights to guide his way. As he walked down the nearly deserted streets, the breeze continued to hit him, until he stopped near a familiar diner, and he dropped on his knees, remembering that particular Sunday.

At that very diner, they had gone out for breakfast together. Somehow, he could remember what they’d ordered; a plate with only two eggs, which simply didn’t suffice. After which, they’d went back to her home, seemingly happy as can be. He remembered how they’d just chatted about anything they could come up with, before a mischievous grin slipped onto her face. Gently, she’d tugged on his hand and led him up the stairs, before letting go and sprinting up the stairs, locking her bedroom door behind her, and he wanted in.

Eventually, she let him into the room where they sat on her bed, his arm wrapped securely around her waist, her looking up at him since she was a mere 5’4”. Even though the conversations went smoothly and they didn’t seem to run out of topics, he could always see that cloud of something indistinguishable in her eyes. It seemed almost like it was remorse, but for what? He was aching to get into her head, to feel her gears turning and to see what it was that was troubling her so deeply.

He remembered how later in that day, he took a walk around the city, how different everything seemed then. It was a strange feeling, too. He could recall a group of brusque men that were smoking outside of a building calling him over and asking him why he was so happy. He had replied telling them about her; how she hadn’t answered his calls after he left and how he was searching for her. He also recalled telling him all of the little things he liked about her, like how her nose wrinkled when she laughed at something, despite the fact that she found it utterly disturbing.

It seemed that he was telling him everything, and even though they seemed like they didn’t care all that much, they all listened patiently. He had even mentioned to them about how he planned to propose to her soon. He could also remember them chuckling and calling him a love stricken fool, though judging by their expressions on thief faces, it looked as if they had all experienced it once before.

He stood up from his knees, his feet leading him elsewhere. He didn’t know where exactly his subconscious was taking him, but he didn’t bother to make his way home. His mind flipped back to a memory of the two again; it was a few weeks after they’d first met, and the first time they’d lost themselves in an endless conversation with each other until it was time for them to leave. He had learned that she wasn’t a believer of love, and it was at that point in time where he promised himself to call her out on it. He was determined to convince her to believe in love.

Someone might ask why he cared so much to prove her wrong, but the answer was simple; he found himself attracted to her. The butterflies that erupted in his stomach every single time he caught a small glimpse of her face was enough to convince him, and surely they had to be enough to convince her of love. He had to believe that she felt it too. He wasn’t able to believe it was something one-sided.

Again, his mind briefly flashed back to the men with the cigarettes that had pestered him, before another memory took its place. It was a few days after they’d become an item. It was the first time she’d tested that little trick. Her grin slipped off of her face and that smirk went on instead. He remembered how he begged her to tell her what was on her clever little mind, and again, he was left with no information.

Sunday flashed into his mind over again. They had planned for him to come over again, yet when he arrived at her house, soaking wet from the downpour, he found that it was empty. He called her name several times, and yet, she was nowhere to be found. Flustered, his brain immediately switched over to the first emotion that it could come up with, that one being panic. Where could she have gone?

With that thought so carefully planted in his mind, he turned around and went to some of her neighbors, explaining the situation. Each and every single one of them had the same answer; she had moved. Some of them had even dared to ask why he hadn’t been informed, since they all knew of her relationship with him. Sadly, he had no answer to that as he trudged back to her house, still sopping wet. It had been raining practically that whole day. Slowly, he clomped into her room again. However, he noticed something on a second glance on her pillow that he hadn’t seen before.

Carefully, he plucked the object off of her pillow. It was a clean white sheet of paper folded in half neatly. Slowly, not knowing exactly what it might withhold, he unfolded it. Instead of reading it, he stared at it for a few seconds, not at all knowing what to make of it. But he knew he had to suck it up, and so, his eyes trailed over her all-too familiar neat scrawl, taking in its every word.

I’m not going to start this out the typical way, because this is no typical letter. By the time you get this, you’ll know that I’m gone. I’m sorry, and I do hope you can come to forgive me for this. I’m not coming back. I’m done calling you. It’s not your fault, I promise. It’s all me. I did something horrible, and I’m too frightened to speak about it. It was never supposed to happen, but it did, and I can’t bear to stay any longer. I’m confused and I’m going insane about it, but I know I’m not ready to face it. It’s unfair for you not to know while I’m still around, so I left and I’m never returning.

It’s raining. Maybe it’s still raining, but regardless, it’s cleansing. It’s like taking a shower, and I’m rinsing everything away, both my past and my present, and you. It’s over. I’m on a plane now, but I’m not telling you where I am. It would ruin the purpose of my leave. But I’m thousands of feet over the ground. I’m watching the world right now, and I’m watching the city as I pass over it. The clouds are beautiful, as always. It’s almost as if it’s my new home. I am home. I’m also towering over you and the city, and I’m never coming back. I’m sorry about everything, but it’s too hard.

I never planned to leave. I never planned any of this. But everything unfolded without my say, and fate had its word. Now it’s all over. I remember one of our conversations we had, and I also remember something you told me. You said that everything happened for a reason, that everything had its purpose. Do you remember what I said in return? I told you that sometimes, you just don’t know what that explanation for it is, not until later, and maybe never. That applies to now. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way, believe me when I tell you this, but it did.

Since it’s not a typical letter, I’m not ending it the typical way, either. Just know that this is with remorse over everything and if anything, it’ll be the closest thing to an apology and an explanation as I can offer you. Things could’ve been different, but it spiraled out of control, and now it’s too late. I wish I could go back in time and take everything back, to prevent everything that had happened, and I know you’re wondering what I’m talking about, but it’s not what it sounds like. You’d never be able to guess, which is why I never told you. It only made leaving that much easier.

I’m sorry.

He looked up at where he was, stunned and even a little baffled to see where his feet had led him. It was her house. It was the same place he had been that Sunday where he’d read that letter that had broke his heart and caused him to throw virtually everything away. He stared at it again, the sun peaking up over the very clouds that had helped her betray his heart. The little sunlight that was coming from the horizon was enough to illuminate the all-too familiar home, and he did the same thing he had done that very same day, that Sunday he remembered too well.

He went home.