She sat in her favorite oversized chair by the window overlooking the garden, her mood subdued by the darkened skies outside. It had been raining for five days now and she missed the afternoon sun glinting off the stained glass ornaments hung from the windowpane that showered the ceiling with a rainbow of colors. Resting her head against the cushion, she stared at the flowers in the garden, drooping from the strain of the constant rainfall.
As a rule, she didn’t mind rain. In fact, she found it oddly romantic on a damp rainy day, to sit with her legs curled up, sipping a cup of black tea and watch the raindrops slide down the glass windows. Then the second day felt as if she was waiting for her long lost lover to return, her wistful gaze trained faithfully on the horizon. On the third day there was the anticipation of the sun returning and a new outlook revealed after everything was washed away. But by the fifth day it was just dank and wet and depressing and she could barely remember what the sun looked like.
Sighing deeply, she closed her eyes and waited. Perhaps tomorrow the sun would return.
Your leaving was like a soft wind blowing out the flame of a candle. Quiet and unexpected, yet unstoppable and absolute.
Our love was awkward and clumsy and innocent and passionate and exquisite and intense all at the same time. First love usually is.
She thought surely she was over him by now. It had been almost a year. She didn’t cry when his face flashed through her memory. She didn’t flinch when she heard his name. She could go days without him crossing her mind and when he did the memories were usually harmless. In the beginning she had cried all the time. She thought her broken heart would actually start bleeding its pain. His broken promises had nearly destroyed her. She deleted all the pictures on her phone and computer, threw away all the letters and notes he had written her, destroyed any evidence he had ever been in her life. Still she cried herself to sleep at night and barely managed to get through the day until she could crawl back in her bed and hide under the covers to repeat the cycle. But she had made it through the darkness and found her way back to the light. Slowly, ever so slowly she had begun to heal and she remembered how to live again, this time without him. Surely she was over him by now. And then there he was, at the same coffee shop, the one close to her new apartment, the one where he didn’t belong. She saw his face and the memories and feelings and emotions came flooding back and threatened to drown her as she stood there in the middle of the shop. She wasn’t over him. Not by a long shot.
We were the original three musketeers. Where there was one the other two were sure to be close by. We grew up together in the same neighborhood. We went to the same schools. We lived the same emotion filled adolescent-hormonal-emotion driven life. With us there was no such thing as a third wheel. We turned life into a tricycle. So when we ended up at separate colleges we never doubted that our sacred bond of sisterhood would make it through unscathed. What naivety in believing we could withstand the test of time and distance.