The Way Things Were


Books lay scattered across the disheveled bed and I didn’t dare move them. They were preserved there, unmoving and at peace. How much time? I couldn’t tell you. Enough time to stiffen my back, sleeping on the couch. But not enough time to heal the aches left from a premature departure.

The books were so insignificant. I couldn’t even tell you what they were about, or heck, what their titles were. But leaving them there made it feel as if the bed were still occupied. As if I could still drag him up the stairs and take his grin for granted as I made him clean up the mess.

I still expected him to barge through the door at any moment, bearing a bouquet in apology. Of course I would accept it in a heartbeat, as just having him close to me would suffice. But some of us didn’t have that luxury.

Everyone told me that there was a reason for everything, at which I decided that whomever could control the forces of the universe and steal my love from my clenched fists was a cruel bastard. It didn’t make sense. I couldn’t put two and two together.

So I left things the way the were, covered my ears, and shut everything out.