23 045. Illusion

I was fragile, cold and transparent like an icicle. If you held me too long, I would transform into something else. I’d be even harder to keep.

I wouldn’t let you touch me unless it was barehanded and your skin carefully soothing up against me. My cold surface would eventually make you feel like yours was on fire. And I would start to melt, small particles of me slipping through your fingers. I would change, lose parts of myself, and I would happily do so just to be with you. I was ready to disperse, I was ready to disappear, but you weren’t ready to let me go. So you had me just like that, didn’t touch me and wouldn’t let anybody else either. So I was lonely just like this, I wouldn’t let you get close, because it never was close enough, and I didn’t let anyone else either. I suffered and you just kept me. You kept me and left me in that shell to shiver and shake from the edge of a roof. I couldn’t let go because I was waiting for you to come back and catch me.

I don’t know where you have gone to and why you have to be so far away. I don’t know why the spring still hesitates. But it seems the cold is always here with me. Keeping me company when you wont. 

I was tormented by a heavy sadness. And the more I tried to ignore you, the more I anxiously waited for a word from you. I was carefully taking steps away, increasing the distance. I still saw your silhouette on the horizon. I couldn’t tell if you were standing still, following me or walking away. It was at this crucial hour, any of that could be true, but with wildly different futures as result. I tried to prepare for losing sight of you and never seeing you again. But I couldn’t believe it. You wouldn’t let me go. You wouldn’t. Would you? Perhaps we just had enough. You got tired of the game and found someone else to play with. I was so depressed I didn’t know what to do with my self. I turned off the notifications so I wouldn’t see when you wrote to me. That resulted in me checking the status every half hour. I had made it worse. I tried to make it less painful, and I had made it worse. Perhaps it was just a matter of getting used to the new situation. When you wrote I wouldn’t answer, not straight away. It could take hours. Sometimes I’d see your message then close it and stretch until I couldn’t bare it anymore. Then I answered as casually as I could. Often replicating the tone you used to answer me. Casual, friendly but disengaging. I have no idea what I tried to accomplish. I couldn’t play the game like you did. I had no natural talent for it and I didn’t enjoy it at all.

This was far too confusing and honestly it broke my heart several times over. I couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t enjoy eating. Not even drinking had any appeal to me. Usually when the weekend came around I’d feel at least a small indication of a spark. The troublemaker in me would smile widely and rub its hands, saying: ‘Hey, how about we make some trouble ey.’ But I didn’t feel like it. Even the troublemaker lay subdued and swept up in a heavy blanket of boredom and apathy. We didn’t care. We didn’t care about anything. Not even making trouble. We simply didn’t care about any of it.