the tea has gone cold

won't you come back?

the kettle gets louder and louder, water bubbling furiously as it reaches boiling point before finally clicking off.
i place the newly bought notebook and pen on the table, pour the water into the teacup and stand there, watching the colour seep out of the bag.

i love watching tea brew.

seeing the colour swirl out of the bag reminds me of the pigment pouring off my paintbrushes when i’d dip them in water.
back when i used to paint.
back when i had the will to.
back when.

i shake my head free of the darkness it’s falling into and reach for the milk.
finish making the tea and finally, finally, settle down to write.
the first page of notebooks always daunts me.

but this time is worse.

the white of the paper glares back at me, daring me to write what i’ve been delaying for so long.

i take a sip of tea.

a deep breath.

and begin.

---

hey you.
oh great. not even started the introduction and i’m crying already.
i knew it would go like this.
but the therapist says that the first step of dealing with loss is accepting it.
i laughed the first time she said that - a harsh, brittle laugh, more like a scoff than anything with mirth.

i haven’t laughed with real joy since that morning, when you’d mixed up the words ‘improve’ and ‘improvise’ for the hundredth time.
you never learnt which word was which.
i never corrected you.

but back to ‘dealing with loss’.

loss.

they think i’ve lost you.
as if i ever could.
how do you lose someone whose soul still courses through your body?
each time someone pats me on the back and whispers ‘sorry for your loss’, i feel like screaming.
screaming that i haven’t lost you, i never will, that even death didn’t, couldn’t do us part.

you’re a part of me.

you are me.

it’s been 94 days.
94 days since life split down the seams into a before and an after.
94 days since i last heard your voice, telling me through the glitches in the last call to ‘get dressed up’, you’d be picking me up for dinner later.
94 days since i’d worn your favourite dress, sprayed your favourite perfume, made myself some tea and sat down to wait.

i’d picked up a book - wuthering heights (it’s been gathering dust ever since it fell out of my hand that day) and started reading, to pass the time before you got home.
ten minutes in, i realised the tea had gone cold.

looking back now, you’d laugh at that, i know.

my tendency to forget about a hot drink as soon as i’d made it, abandoned cups left steaming around the house as i’d get distracted by a book, a thought, the sun coming out from behind a cloud.
you’d tease me about it endlessly - tease me again, won’t you?

i’d gotten up to warm it, was headed to the kitchen when my phone rang.

it’s been 94 days since i answered the call, since the mug slipped from my hands, shattering onto the floor and covering the cupboards with tea.
since i sunk to the floor and sat, glassy eyed, among the shards, not caring if they cut me because what pain could possibly hurt more than this?
how could anything ever bleed more than my heart currently was?

people say time is the best healer.

and i wish i could say it got better day by day.
but the truth is, i haven’t been living since then.
because how can my day even start when my sun doesn’t rise?
how do I sleep peacefully at night when there is no moon to light my darkness?

you left this world and took my soul with you, trapping me into the ‘later’ where i wait endlessly for someone that won’t return.

take me, love.
don’t leave me here.

there’s more tears than ink on the pages now, so i’ll stop for today.

my tea has gone cold.
it’s later.
wont you come back?

---

love, rooma x