I’m sitting in a café. All alone. But then I’m not alone. I have me.
I look down at the table. I see the white porcelain cup that’s holding my steaming dose of coffee. And there’s the half-eaten brownie in the twin porcelain dish. Even they hold no joy for me today.
I look away. And out the window. The drops of rain are sliding down the glass. And I see the sea further away. And the promenade… I remember sitting there once… with someone. Laughing, sharing… being. Something bubbles up and reaches my throat… I gasp. And I return back to my coffee, but not before the hint of a tear reaches my eye.
The past few years of my life stream before my eyes. All those meaningless parties, mindless talk, mirthless laughs, miserable lonely nights, mournful keening… they zip past me in a whirlwind, uprooting my life, my joy, all that I hold dear. Rendering me vulnerable, open; slashing me, opening old wounds, tearing my flesh apart, drawing blood… water… my heart out.
And then it’s gone. Just like that.
I stand there, looking at the wreck that was my life. And I cry, but the tears have dried. I look to my side. There is someone there, standing right next to me, I’m so sure of it. But I see no one. I’m alone. All alone. But then I’m not alone. I have me.
The door opens. I see people streaming in. I know them. I call them my friends. They stand next to me. Some of them are talking, some are laughing. They touch me, they look at me. But my eyes are fixed to the door. I’m waiting. I’m still waiting.
But the door stays closed. And I sigh.
I turn to the people around me. I see their lips move, I hear their cacophony. They don’t reach me. Before I could think otherwise, my eyes drift back to the door. Seeking the person I can talk with, share thoughts and a few laughs; feel free, be me.
Now I’m weary; weary of waiting, weary of pretending, weary of existing. I want to live, but life has left. I’m alone. All alone. But then I’m not alone. I have me.
About the author: Joyce is a freelance writer who enjoys sketching and painting when she can. She loves stories in all forms, be it in movies, novels, short stories, poems, or anecdotes. She writes short stories herself and hopes to one day write a novel she can call her own. You can read some of her writing on her blog: http://pennyngthoughts.blogspot.in/.