#1
No One is Coming to Save You, Save Yourself.
The sun rises at 4:46 am. The sun sets at 8:28. Between then, as the moon sits alight, a heart that was once complete shatters and splinters with every cry whispered to the stars. The past year, she had spent intertwining her soul with another, only for them to be ripped apart, the stitches she had so carefully placed fell to the ground and disintegrated.
Half of her was gone, because a relationship got simply too complicated. But complicated is not simple, and neither is the fact that things will never be the same. But life goes on.
At noon, long after the sun had risen, she finally began to stir, the dried tears and tangled sheets a strong reminder of the previous night.
She isn’t here anymore.
Things will never be the same. Life goes on.
She dragged herself out of bed, untangled her hair, brushed her teeth.
The flowers on her bathroom counter. The flowers she gave her.
Life goes on.
She walks out of the bathroom, into her room, and begins to look for something clean to wear.
The sweatshirt on her dresser. Her sweatshirt.
Life goes on.
She walks down the hall, her hungry cats swarming her feet.
The painting on the wall. The painting she made for her.
Life goes on.
She sits on the couch, looking for something to watch on the television.
The socks on the floor. Her socks.
Life goes on. Life goes on. Lifegoeson.
She doubles over, the pain hitting her like a punch to the gut. Her eyes squeeze shut, praying it was all a dream. She’s not actually gone.
Please come back. We can fix this. It’s not over.
The pain is physical, like she can actually feel her heart splintering into sharp shards, piercing her chest. She cries, her tears carrying the memory of her eyes, her lips, her hands, her voice, her smell; she cries as if it’s the end of the world itself, like a text of “I’m sorry” would save it.
“We don’t work anymore,” she said.
“I love you. Please, stay.”
“I can’t,” was all she responded. “I’m sorry.”
Her last words echo through her head.
I’m sorry.
So she stands, begins to collect all of her things. The flowers, the sweatshirt, the painting, the socks, the necklace, the stuffed animals, the notes, the matching bracelets she never wore. Everything that was hers, put into a box and shut out from the world.
Life goes on.
-
The sun rises and sets. The moon appears and vanishes just as fast. Yet, time seems to stand still. Life seems to have lost its meaning, the only thing that proves she’s alive is the sound of Taylor Swift’s voice as ‘exile’ drifts through the walls.
“I’m not your problem anymore”
She lays in bed, her emotions weighing her down as she tries to accept the reality of this new chapter. She’s slowly rotting from the inside. She hates her for leaving, she hates her for wanting to see what life was like without her. She hates her for saying she could handle her mental health. She hates her, because she wants to forget but wait for her at the same time. She hates that she still loves her.
-
Why would someone want to hold on to someone who wants to see if life is better without them? As the sun dies and the moon comes alive, those words whisper in the shadows around a girl who longs for her love, haunting her, tormenting her.
She remembers the fights, the screaming at each other in the parking lot, the tears, the repeated apologies and hurtful words. She remembers sobbing in her car, begging her to listen. The late night phone calls, her hanging up when she needed her the most. But most of all, she remembers how fiercely they loved each other, until it consumed them both.
She looks at the clock. 4:46 am. The sun rises.
-
“You know it wasn’t working.”
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance are the five stages of grief. Yet, she feels them all at the same time, chipping away at her. She seems trapped in a bubble, her friends and family speaking to her but their words are muffled and unintelligible. Her best friend’s words barely reach her when he comes at her call in the middle of the night, sobbing, desperate for someone to care.
“You need to get up.”
“You need to let go.”
“You were miserable.”
Miserable. Misery is a strong word. Misery doesn’t make sense. She loved her, how could love end in misery? The word bounced around in her head, until it settled and opened a chasm in her heart. Is it love, if one stays up at night, tears soaking the bed sheets, whispering to calm themselves down enough to sleep for a few hours? Is it love, if one cries for the comfort of their mother’s arms, because they weren’t there, because they didn’t show up? Is it love if one begs for understanding and the other, denies? Is it love, if misery is suddenly the only word that makes sense?
Maybe love is the word that doesn’t make sense anymore.
-
“Maybe if I just called her…”
“If she wants to come back, she will. Don’t call her.”
It takes everything in her not to do just that. Her thumb hovers over the green call button, but her body seems to betray her as she cannot press it. Her best friend takes the phone away.
“You don’t need this right now,” He gently tells her.
The tears spill over, silently streaming down her face as she clings desperately to his shirt.
“I want her to come back.”
“I know.”
“How are we supposed to just forget each other, when we once were everything together?”
“It’s just how breakups go. You can’t go back and change it.”
“Why can’t I just call her?”
“If it’s meant to be, it will be. You’re breaking your own heart again. If she wanted to, she would.”
Those words from him calmed the devastation in her chest, and a red fog swarmed until it finally settled into her heart.
If she wanted to, she would.
But she didn’t. She didn’t want to. She didn’t want her. She’d rather they become strangers, than try to fix the connection that they had. She’d rather forget, than be with her again.
Was someone who wanted to forget her really worth the pain and tears? Was she really worth losing herself over?
“She’s not coming to save you this time.”
Oh.
-
The sun sets and rises every day without fail. It is the one reliable thing in life: time. Time is the essence of healing, they say. Time is the essence of life. In time, it will get better. All you need is time. Time. Time. But with time, it seems to worsen, as with every passing minute, is another minute without her. But at the same time, another minute without her is a wind swept feeling of relief.
She laughs with her friends again, the friends that she didn’t like, so she asked her to stop seeing them. She draws again, because she isn’t there to criticize and tell her that she was the better artist, the all-knowledgeable. She drives with the windows and top down, blasting Taylor Swift, because she wasn’t there to tell her she was tired of listening to the same artist, or that the wind was messing up her oh-so-carefully styled hair. She lives again, because she isn’t there to tell her how.
She’s not coming to save me.
She’s able to take care of herself again.
She’s not coming to save me.
She’s able to sleep without her again.
She’s not coming to save me.
She smiles again.
She doesn’t need someone else’s love to save her. She never did. The love that she has for herself is the only thing that can paste the pieces of her splintered heart back together. Only she can pick up her pieces. It hurts, but she has herself. She always will.
It was the final realization that snapped her out of the hole that she was slowly descending into.
No one is coming to save you. Save yourself.
Spring 
Day 
Flood
