You Weren’t There and It Didn’t Make Sense

You weren’t there and it didn’t make sense.

I sat on the round table, sipping my morning tea, admiring through the window the splendor of the sun coming up. The sunlight hit the empty seat opposite mine, the one where you always used to occupy.

I can still smell the aroma of strong coffee, your blend, though it wasn’t there anymore; so much like your presence. You weren’t there — and suddenly, looking out into the window to greet the morning didn’t make sense.

I check my mobile, stare at it for a while, and attended to tasks that involve it. This phone makes a lot of things so much simpler. It can reach almost anyone, even people on the other side of the planet with merely pressing a few buttons — but why can’t it make me reach you? Your number’s no longer there, and we choose to make the phone not work both ways. And it didn’t make sense.

By the time the day ends, I’ve managed to fill the hours with matters of insignificance. Things I would forget that I ever did, in time. I lie down in my bed large enough for one other person to fit. I tell myself I like the space as I tend to toss and turn a lot while sleeping anyway. But there’s space and it reminds you of a void — something that needs to be filled, like this one resting in my chest. I’m done with the day and you weren’t physically in it, not even once. It didn’t make sense.

And the fact that I ever let you go, the fact that I let the only person who makes me feel the way you do, that the thought of letting you go even became a choice — that doesn’t make sense.

Not at all.

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