Are You Real?

I see his figure standing by the window every night before I go to sleep. He stares out into the back yard, moon on his opaque skin. My lamp glows yellow and lonely as im sitting in my bed, pen to paper. His silhouette shifts as he turns his head to look at me, I blink, and he disappears. I see him all around our house. Late nights when I stick my head in the fridge for something sweet, I can see his legs dangling off of the kitchen counter. His torso is blocked by the open fridge door, so I try to close it quickly to see his face, but I never can. He vanishes like he was never even there. 

He doesn’t come out in the day. I’ve tried to recall when we’ve been together at the same time as the sun was up. It’s only when our living room turns golden and I can see the dust floating through the air, when our plants rustle and the soil softens. I never had a green thumb so he’s the only reason they’ve stayed alive. I put on a record. Sitting on this bar stool staring out of our living room window is the best way to see him, almost fully. He spins around the room, brown curls flying around, diamond studs glinting in the setting sun. It’s his favorite song. I can almost picture his face as he moves quickly. But still not quite. 

I’m with him on our beige machine made rug. The song changes to a slower one and he grabs me to dance with him. My head rests on his chest, arms wrapped around his torso. Ear to his heart I swear I can hear a faint beat. His chin rests on the top of my head and we just rock back and forth for however long I watch for. Until I close my eyes again and it’s just me and my record player, the feedback playing over and over because the song has been stopped.

It’s 5:58 in the morning and the sun is peeking in through the blinds. I only feel it shining on my eyes as if it the crack was only there to wake me up. The rest of my room is dark. I see in shadows and try to make out what I already know is there. I wonder if he leaves the blinds open at night, to let me know he was there. Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself to make me believe that he was.

Click. I turn on the lamp and stare at the covered TV screen in front of me. My grandma used to tell me screens are portals for spirits when they’re left blank, so whenever she wasn’t watching anything, she covered it with colorful tapestry— anything that gives life rather than takes. He was a gift rather than a giver. He himself could do anything and I felt like the luckiest person to be alive. So I don’t know why the memory of him takes and takes and takes. It takes all of me and none of me, and i’m left depleted in this empty house that used to be called our home. 

It’s cheesy to say his ghost haunts me when I know he’s out there somewhere, living the life he always wanted. I see him everywhere here. Every inch of this house has seen his smile and felt his touch so now I run my fingers on the wall crevices and plant stems. He said we’d both be better off without each other yet i’m stuck in a time loop where everything stays still and the memory of him stays intact. It’s like if I left the house, or had anyone else over it would taint my brain and cause ripples through the memory of him. I already can’t see his face anymore. 

It doesn’t hurt. I don’t think hurt would be the right term it’s more lost. I don’t feel like myself anymore. I don’t remember what it feels like to feel like myself anymore. I think that’s the reason he left. We were intwined where my eyes were his and his air was mine. Our dreams weren’t our own and there was no way to go back to how it was in the beginning, before it we were all consuming. 

I remember the day he left so vividly. I picture it sometimes. It goes like this. 

I feel light shining on my eyelids and it catches my attention. I sit up in the darkness and feel for his body next to mine, but the right side of the bed is empty. The bedroom door is closed and I don’t think that’s odd (until after the fact.) We never close any doors in the house so I get up and I see the hallway light on. The brown wood under my feet is cold so I know he turned off the heat. Why was he acting so weird? I see him sitting in the bar stool—the only one that isn't matching the rest. He's hunching over a piece of paper and a pen, lights dimmed and I see a suitcase hidden behind the island counter. 

“What's going on my love. What are you doing?”

“I'm sorry did I wake you?”

“No the sun woke me up. Where are you going? Why is your suitcase packed?”

“I was gonna write you a note..”

“A note? A note for what? What are you doing? Are you leaving me?”

“I’m so sorry. It's what's best for both of us. I'm going to LA. Like we used to talk about.”

“Wait what, then I'll come with you. WE talked about it. Why are you going without me?”

”We both know you’re not gonna to leave this town. You’re close to your dream.. Your dream house, dream job, but I'm sorry I can’t be your dream person.”

“But you are my dream person??? I can move with you. I can find a new job, a new house.”

“You want a family. That's your dream.  I don't know if I want that. We're so young and I wanna pursue my career.”

His voice was trembling and he inched away from me as I got closer. As if when we touched he wouldn’t leave, he couldn’t leave. My face is hot and my hands are cold, I feel the tears trickling down my face. My body’s weak and I fall to the ground. The cold ground. 

“My flight is in an hour. I was just waiting for my Uber to take me to the airport. I want you to know that I love you so much. Words cannot express how I feel about you. But that's the problem. I don't leave now I don't think I ever will.” 

“Please don’t do this”

He held back a sob and I heard his breath catch. I didn’t look up until I heard the door shut. I don’t know what came over me but I ran to him to have a one last goodbye hug. I don’t know why I thought he would be standing behind the door right as I opened it, because when I did he was getting in a car. Not even a look back. Window roll down. I didn’t even see him look out of the window when he was driving away. 

I gripped my torso as if hands were growing out of my back, fingers pointing toward my spine. I was on the bathroom floor with the lights off and a soft candle lit, It was not anything unusual, but the only time felt I held in a long time.  I talked to myself. Not in the psycho tripping on fentanyl talking but rather a soothing “you’re okay, you’re okay.”

I’m a liar.