Baby Steps

Brian started walking. It was January 26th; it would have been their two years and six months anniversary today. He still remembered it, even though it had been over a year since she left - well, one year, four months, and thirteen days. To tell the truth, Brian would probably never forget it, despite his desperate attempts to. He knew, though. He knew that she wasn't going to come back. Ever. He had moved past thinking that he would run into her at some bar or at the grocery store or something and things would be fine.

He was doing well. Getting there. Baby steps.

It was cold outside, but for the first time in a long time there was no new snow. She had loved the snow, he remembered; she would always want to make snow angels and she refused to wear her gloves outside. He had been seeing someone new, Sarah. Sarah hated the snow more than anything. She was a nice girl, really, and he liked her - she was just different. His friends maintained that he would find someone new, someone better, that there were plenty more fish in the sea. Brian didn't think so.

He was doing well, though. Getting there. Baby steps.

He had been reading quite a bit lately. He very much enjoyed Charles Dickens - he liked to imagine that he was the Pip to her Estella, and that someday things would be okay for them. Sometimes, when he was walking into town, he would take a detour to walk past her apartment. He would get the urge to knock on the door, but he knew she wouldn't answer it. She didn't live there anymore; nowadays she was quite far away with her new life. He wondered, though, if the interior had frozen like Satis House. He wondered if she was still wearing the same dress she wore the day he left her and if the clocks were stuck were stuck at the exact second he walked away from her and left her sitting at that restaurant counter. He never walked past that restaurant. Ever.

But he was doing well. Getting there. Baby steps.

Brian stopped just outside the cemetery. She was sitting there, just as she always was. He wondered for a moment if she would even remember him. He wondered if she ever remembered him.

"I'm here again," he started, barely above a whisper, "all by myself." He hoped that she was listening. He hoped. "So, should we speak then?"

There was no answer.

"You don't hold me anymore," he continued, slightly louder, "and I know I'll never hold you like I used to."

And yet, she sat there with that stone at her head. Silent, cold. He wished that she would talk to him, give him some vague sign that she did remember. It wasn't her fault - it was probably really hard to hear things all the way up in heaven.

"I know you'll never love me like you used to."

And to tell the truth, Brian wasn't doing so well.