(5)

She is losing all her time, and he is running out of his. The night stands still, the atmosphere holding its breath, and him letting out his last. She never came. He closes his eyes, takes one stride, two strides, and feels himself teeter on the edge, the night air biting and raw. Then as he steps off the side the way she stepped into his life, he lets his eyes slip open only to watch the sky careen from his fingertips.

Five, the rumbling grind of plastic and pavement, pedals turn wheels, and the evening is still. The sun is low, and the trees cast gold-rimmed shadows. He rides his big wheel down the old street, not caring that the gravel already mars his new tires. Things are like that, when he’s young. Things are always easier when he’s closer to the ground.

Four, he sees her and everything is different. He greets her and everything feels fresh again, but he quickly notices that she doesn’t match his smile. With her face anxious and voice tight, she locks his gaze and barely whispers, “If two broken hearts collide, do you think it makes a whole?” When he doesn’t have an answer, she makes herself small like she’s said the wrong thing, and her eyes wander to the floor. Hopeless eyes always feel more at home when they’re closer to the ground.

   
Three, he notices how short and ragged her nails are only when he feels the comfortable weight of her hand resting on his chest. He thinks back to all the times he’s seen her chewing them, one of her countless nervous habits. He wishes that she wasn’t so anxious, her body always seeming uncomfortable and tense. The irritation starts to cloud his thoughts, annoyed  that she couldn’t relax, not even when she was with him. But as he hears her take a heavy breath beside him, he looks down to see her curled up against him, her eyes closed, breathing settling soft and slow. The anger that fogged his mind is immediately replaced with hatred for himself, how he could be so quick to turn on the girl that he loved. He arches his neck down to  gently kiss her forehead, and watches as her face creeps to a slight smile. For a moment, he thinks he will see her eyelids rise, but when they stay shut he leans back up, and rests his back against the headboard.
“I love you,” he whispers. He knows she can’t hear him, and after a few moments, he turns away. This time speaking to an open room, he lets the word fall from his lips.
        “I love you.”
He means what he says, but the words don’t bring color to the room, like he’d wanted. They don’t bring light to her eyes, they don’t make her blush or cry or smile. She doesn’t hear them. And he says it again, but the words slip from his lips and struggle to stay afloat, gasping for the oxygen that is a reply. But they drown in the open room and plummet to the floor like they have boulders bound to them. Words that escape from mouths that can spit a lie of a smile without second thought always sink until they’re closer to the ground.

    Two, he throws open the door already knowing what he’ll see, and already knowing that he doesn’t want to see it. The need for clarity was what drove him to the party in which he wasn’t invited, and his lack of definity was what kept him from believing what he knew. The unknown is what people fear, but it’s also the only thing that keeps them alive, keeps them waiting. And only as he turns the corner and sees her with another, her fingers through his hair, his lips on hers, he understands that certainty is the only thing that can kill him. A million thoughts rush to the front of his mind, but only one makes it to his tongue.
    “I hope you’re happy.” He doesn’t say it in spite, or to prove her wrong. He says it because all he has ever wanted was for her to have all the things she has ever wanted. And
realizing that he’s not the one that can give that to her, he watches as her face turns to him, but he turns his back and leaves before she can think of anything to say. He had stayed calm in the house, but as he enters his car he can’t help but to let the tears burn mercury streaks down his face. The drive home is hurried by speeding thoughts and swerving emotions, and when he makes it home, he closes the door behind him, and collapses on the floor, because he knew that was all he could do. He knows, that at that moment, the universe needed him to be closer to the ground.

   
    One. One more night of waiting. One more pleading voice mail, one more sleepless night, one more day spent only with thoughts and four walls. One more chance to tell them he loves them. One more day before he’s closer to the ground. One more.

    Five, four, three, two, one

        Zero.