but I can’t. My hands are unsteady as I madly open each cupboard, drawer and find one thing in common with each—they’re all empty.
Leaning against the counter, I cover my gaping mouth, attempting to piece together what is going on. I don’t have to look too hard. Roman gave me the final piece; I was just too blind to appreciate what it meant.
“Soon, you won’t have to worry about seeing me.”
No. He can’t. It doesn’t end this way.
My good sense is left in the kitchen as my feet are planted in his empty living room, peering around at a gaping emptiness comparable to what I’m feeling right now. All that is left is one wooden chair and his TV.
“No,” I weep, running from room to room, only to be confronted by the same sight. Each room is emptier than the one before it. No wonder he checked us into a hotel last night.
When I reach his bedroom, I blink past my tears. The bed that provided me so much comfort in my darkest hours is no longer swathed in silk sheets or a velvety comforter. All that’s left is a single mattress in the center of the room, blanketed with a starchy white sheet and crowned with a flat pillow.
This now looks like a squatter’s den rather than the house that was my sanctuary when I needed it the most. Closing the door, I only wish I could shut out the utter torment I feel right now. The spare room that was once filled with boxes is now empty, just like the rest of this house.
The only reason I know Roman still lives here is because of Freud, but not for long. He’s leaving, and he’s leaving without saying goodbye. The vacant space is suddenly like looking into a mirror.
I switch off the lights, each dark room ebbing away at my light. The last room, the kitchen, the room where we shared many laughs, is my last hope. It all seems void, but unlike Roman, I see things through.
This was supposed to represent everything I’ve gained, but instead, it will highlight all I’ve lost. Digging into my back pocket, I unfold the picture I printed of Roman and me. The Big Tony’s pizza magnet has finally come into use, and I slap it over the picture as I place it dead center on the fridge.
I’ve just broken Roman’s rule of no photos, as all the memories he wishes to store are kept away under lock and key. But seeing as he thought he was easily forgettable, I wanted to show him that what we shared…it was unforgettable.
Staring at the photo, I memorize the pure happiness because I don’t know when or if I’ll ever feel it again. Roman will be angry that I broke his no photo rule, but it seems fitting, considering he’s just broken my heart.
I give Freud one last pat before I switch off the light and lock up. I can’t linger. I need to go. Placing the key where I found it, I amble down the steps and walk calmly to the idling cab. The middle-aged driver peers up from his phone, surprised I returned.
Opening the door, I sit silently in the back seat. The driver waits for me to speak, but he doesn’t press. I need a moment to process what I just saw.
“Where to, miss?” the driver asks. He seems like a pleasant gentleman, and on any other day, I would make conversation, but not today.
With eyes still lost in the heavens, I numbly reply, “Manhattan. Please take me home.”
It’s been three days since I fled Strawberry Fields in the dead of night.
During the cab ride back to Manhattan, I emailed June, informing her of my decision. I kept it brief. I texted Zoe, begging she forgive me for just taking off without saying goodbye. I promised I’d see her again. I just didn’t know when. I emailed Dr. Carter and asked if he would oversee the duration of the trials. He agreed.
I then switched my phone off and did the same thing with my mind.
I only woke when the taxi driver pulled up to the curb, and my home, soaring into the Manhattan skyline, came into view. I thought I would be happy to be home, but coming back here is like admitting defeat.
I made my way into the foyer, thankful Pablo, the front desk manager, gave me a spare key. I then rode the elevator ride to my apartment.