That morning he got up early. When he was a young child he
remembered waking up in the dark eating breakfast with the
lights on and leaving home when only a pale light was
glaring on the back of the building, pacing slowly on the
ice covered sidewalks. It was one of those memories he would
always have. Normally he tried to waste as much sun light
time as possible in bed. What really worried him was that
his nights were getting shorter. He knew insomnia well and
it wasn't something he wanted to experience again. On his
way to the kitchen he opened all the windows to let the
oxygen and light in. It was a beautiful 2-room apartment.
His room wasn't big, it had one three-part window that
spread across the west wall, the door was on the east wall.
On the south wall which sided with the bathroom, he had his
closet and on the other his bed and a wooden trunk in which
he stored extra sheets and blankets that served him as a bed
table. He placed a table under the window with his blue
chair and a few shelves next to it on the wall on which he
placed small statues, boxes and other nonsense. The other
room was bigger; it had two windows and enough space to
place the green sofa and the television on the opposite
wall. He covered the only wall that didn't have a window
with shelves and kept all his books, CD's and his stereo
there. Right above the sofa he put one single painting, the
last he ever painted, his favorite. In the middle stood a
huge antique dark leather valise he'd found on the street
one night and used as a table.  

He made himself a big cup of steamy coffee and parked
himself in front of CNN. After a few revolutions, one high
profile murder and a political crisis he gulped what was
left of the coffee and walked back into the kitchen for
toast. He pushed the slices into the toaster and looked
around. The walls were starting to peal. He thought he might
do something about it but realizing it wasn't urgent he
decided to forget it for now. If the nights were shorter
then the days were longer. And still as empty. He consulted
the TV guide. He once heard a friend say that she'd never
felt alone in his life, he answered in disbelief. His gaze
fixed on the open kitchen window and one dark cloud that was
advancing towards him. He didn't feel alone. The cold breeze
made him shiver as he unintentionally remembered the touch
of her skin. He closed his eyes as tight as he could,
wrapping his arms around his stomach to stop the tremble. He
missed people, the justification their presence around him
could give. But he couldn't help but add to this the
jealousy and insecurities they brought along with them,
their stupidity and recklessness. He didn't feel alone, but
the hours and minutes went by so slowly. It'd been this way
for one month. The only person he'd talk to now was his
mother. He told his so-called close friends that he needed
some time alone. They probably thought "time" meant a few
days, a couple of weeks tops. It all became so hard, all
these people cramped up in his head. At that point he
realized he wasn't anyone's hero. There was no reason for
him to keep fighting, and losing over and over. Losing a
battle he never really believed in. He got caught up in this
whirlwind of pretend grown ups and pretend relationships,
pretend life! That we're all children trapped in adult
bodies, you wake up one day with a part time job you can't
stand, an apartment, a student loan, a partner you don't
love, friends you can't trust and a pile of dead dreams. His
'list' of goals to achieve became shorter every year but he
guessed it had something to do with growing older. At that
particular point in time he couldn't think of anything he
really wanted. "If you can't change the world - change
yourself". Aim for the lowest, easiest possible and you'll
avoid disappointment. Don't put yourself on the line by
wanting things that you might never have. Don't expect too
much. Think small. When did growing up become dying?

She was his friend and that's all she ever wanted to be.
They never talked about it anyway. And then she found some
one, they had this talk where she told him that she'd fallen
in love. He looked at her from across the table as she was
saying these beautiful words about some guy he never met,
and felt himself become more and more distant until he had
no connection to her. All she ever said to him was
meaningless and all he ever said to her was too much. For a
while he managed to convince himself to be the bigger
person, he tried to be there for her the way he'd always
been before. The pain in his stomach when he saw them
together was bearable at first. And one day he took out all
the pills he could find in the house and laid them on the
table in front of him. He sat there staring at them for
hours and ended up falling asleep with his head on the
aspirins. He guessed that was his version of what they call
"love".

Out of cigarettes and milk he decided to make a short trip
to the market. He took a quick look inside the refrigerator
just to realize it was empty. He threw on jeans and a dark
gray sweater, his army boots, the big leather coat and
sunglasses. Trapped in his own reflections he walked slowly
down the stairs and into the street. The fresh air cleansed
his lounges and stung his eyes. The sun was shining as if it
had something to celebrate but the wind was ice-cold. Cars
flew by and people walked through him as he marched silent
and impenetrable. It wasn't a dramatic exit, nothing
Camus-esc like he usually did. One day he just didn't go
out, didn't get drunk, didn't have a pep talk with one of
the local tortured souls. And the next day he stayed in bed.
And the next day went to visit his sister and her children.
Three days later he didn't even miss it that much
surprisingly. In a short time he went from not thinking,
feeling everything to thinking too much and feeling only the
wrong things. 24 years old he felt like a bitter old man. So
he killed everything. The small market was only two streets
away and at this time there were only a few old ladies
arguing. He walk for a few seconds among the neatly arranged
shelves, towers of toilet paper, buildings of tin cans
savoring the perfect order and spots of colored labels, he
was very aware of his borderline OCD slash Andy Warhol sense
of order. He took some fresh vegetables and bread, eggs,
pasta and the milk and cigarettes he came for. He wanted so
much to forget. Forget everything, start again with all the
mistakes to make and the innocence to lose. The surprise
sting of the first heartbreak, the tenderness of the first
kiss, the excitement of self-loathing, the pain and the joy
- the first times. But he knew he couldn't, all those
answers and all those mistakes, all this pain made him what
he was, and every detail of his face was a story by itself.
None of the scars would erase. He broke the rules. They
probably thought he'd killed himself, or pulled a Richey.
None of them tried to find him or even call. It was all
becoming a lot clearer. He lit a cigarette and boiled some
water for the pasta. The word "love" didn't exist in his
mind, only as vague aspiration. He pealed an onion and
poured some olive oil into a pan. He always cooked too much
food, he'd been living on his own for about two years and
still made enough for at least three people. He washed two
tomatoes in cold water and diced them carefully before
throwing them in with the onion and oil. The basil plant was
on the kitchen window with the parsley and thyme. His own
miniature herb garden. Every time he'd take care of the
green, motionless creatures he felt a peculiar form of inner
peace.

He could draw her from memory. He knew every line on her
face every curve of every eyelash, the shade of her lips,
each finger and each fingernail. He memorized her to
perfection. The first time she touched him he felt as if
someone had given him an amazing privilege, he couldn't
explain it. He could quite possibly say the exact number of
times they'd touched, the circumstances and the location.
And her smell. If you could recreate smell, he knew it by
heart.

The food was perfect, as usual. He was such a fool. One
thing he could never deal with was shame, he never thought
he would be this alone again, never thought he would turn
out to be this wrong. But it wasn't just that, it was anger
as well, at himself for thinking anything would ever change.
He hadn't felt anything new in months, years even. Maybe
that was what he was going for. Last night he woke up alone
in his bed reaching for something or someone, and he was
grabbed by a powerful fear - it took over him completely. He
had everything he's ever wanted but he couldn't remember why
he'd ever wanted it. He had a friend, you could call it a
best friend. That type of friend you talk to every day and
you can call at any hour of the night. The type who will
always say the things you need to hear most but can't bring
yourself to say. The type that needs you exactly the way you
need him. They would always go together, if for some reason
they were seen apart people would always ask where the other
is. Pubs, parties, concerts. People move on, it's a given,
they move to a different city or country, they find new
friends and you don't see them as much, or you just grow
apart. He didn't judge him, it wasn't a 'where are you when
I need you' thing, probably he just missed him. But they
were different people now, it wasn't the same as before and
they both knew that, they needed different things. Although
he would kill for a good conversation right about now. He
opened the living room window and sat on the ledge. His
tired head filled with the sounds and the light from
outside, the movement of the leaves. A gray cat crossed the
garden slowly and found a perfect spot to nap on the sun
washed stairs. A yellow butterfly flew by and landed on the
fence. The poor thing was way too early and would probably
die of cold by sundown. He was a fool. If he could go back
and change a few things, even only in his own behavior,
would he? He did feel like he tried his best but did he?
Maybe there was one thing he could've told her that would've
made her understand and she would walk through that door in
a few minutes throw her bag on the sofa and ask what's for
dinner. Maybe he didn't try enough and wasn't there enough
for him and he went and found someone else, someone better,
like she did. Maybe he was obsolete. They got sick of his
bottomless sadness. They were better off without him. His
feeling of inadequacy wasn't always this powerful, at the
beginning it even made him feel proud to be different. As
you become an adult you realize a few things, how small the
swings in the park really are, how the lady from the
supermarket is still wearing the same dress after 15 years,
and how you've suddenly become this 'person' with this
'personality'. How the world labels you and puts you in a
drawer with other 'people' like you. And if you keep them on
their toes, they 'protect themselves' and throw you to the
dogs.

He sat there until the sun sank into the buildings and the
stars pierced through the dark blue sky. Until he could only
guess the inside of the room and all he could see clearly
was the red dot of his cigarette moving in front of his
face. Until he couldn't stand the cold anymore. He got up
and turned on the heat. His eyes fell on his cellular
precisely two and a half seconds before it started ringing.
He picked it up from the table and his breath froze when he
saw her name flickering on the screen below the word
'calling'.  Maybe it was all a bad dream, he would wake up
any second.