I would climb up onto the windowsill of my very small room, open the window wide into the night, and let my lungs breathe in the freeing, wonderful, cold air. With my back to the piles of boxes and bags of clothes, I could forget for a few moments that everything in my life was a mess.
My heart felt heavy and my mind never stopped, it raced from one painful thought to another. I would watch the cars driving past into the distance, tail lights fading into the deep darkness. The streetlamps would be glowing, and I would hear voices nearby, and wonder about everything out there in the world.
I felt more comfortable in the night, when I could stop trying. I could stop pretending everything was okay.
At times like this she’d often call, reaching out in the middle of the night; one lost soul to another. She’d ask to come over, and I’d wait to hear her car driving quietly into the deserted street.
We would sit in the car and talk, or go on a drive somewhere… anywhere.
She knew what it meant to feel like a ghost, and we both connected through our pain. We had no advice, or wise words for each other, no trying to figure out a solution. We didn’t even have to say how we felt really, because we each already knew. But we did anyway sometimes; feeling cathartic through our honest and often ugly feelings, being shared.
And when words ran out we could sit quietly in the night, waiting for whatever was supposed to come next. She’d bring me home, and I’d slip into bed and wonder if tomorrow night would be the same.
Time passed and we’re changed souls who see each other in the brightness of the day now, under the happy glow of new beginnings and fresh starts. But every now and again, on a quiet night, I’ll look out of my window and into the darkness, and be thankful for that time when we understood each other.
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