Dom
I just want you.
Me
Never going to happen.
Dom
We’ll see.
Isn’t that what he’s doing right now? Not giving up on you?
It’s not the same because for pure love to exist, it has to be reciprocated, not born from hate and deceit. We’re standing in the middle of a graveyard surrounded by nothing but our disastrous endings.
4
ZOE
The elevator doors open up to my brother’s dark and quiet penthouse suite. It’s eerily silent, which is a warm welcome after the stressful day I had. I’m craving the quiet a lot lately, realizing that I’m more comfortable in the dark. More comfortable within the borders of my thoughts where it’s safe, predictable, painless.
It might seem lonely, but I recognize this type of loneliness. I’ve lived with it for so long that it’s familiar and comforting. It might be dark, but I welcome the pain. I know how to handle it. Some days, I just want to drown in the void until it consumes me in full.
I want to turn it all off until there is nothing left of me.
This space is better than hope or false promises. What I hate is the illusion that hope lingers somewhere nearby. Trusting someone and then getting treated like trash, like a punch in the gut when I’m already down. It’s a relentless cycle that reinforces the belief in my worthlessness. I stay away from emotions and attachments because they always lead to disappointment. But even when I shut down, failure still finds a way in. Because at the end of the day, we’re all left with ourselves, headed for the same inevitable fate.
So, what’s the point?
Some days I’m not even sure why I bother. Some days I invite those dark thoughts in, wondering what it would be like to just not wake up tomorrow. To not feel anything at all, fade into darkness and never return.
I want to never remember these days—the pain, the memories. To slip away and cease to exist.
My palm stings as I reach for the liquor cabinet in my brother’s empty apartment. I spent a solid hour today picking up rose heads and petals with Via at the office, long after the hushed chatter had died down. There weren’t even any thorns on the roses. All the stems had been removed. Not even one full flower to cut myself on accidentally. What bullshit is that? I wonder if Dominik did that on purpose. Does he know about my old habits too?
Others might not understand, but the pain feels good, especially when nothing else does. It’s a reminder that I can feel something.
I wish I could be someone else for a day. That’s exactly why I’m grabbing my brother’s half-empty bottle of vodka and planning to cuddle with it tonight. I have picked up drinking again. Whenever something happens that destroys a part of me, I can’t sleep very well, and the only proven method that helps me pass out is alcohol.
I only take what I need, and I always make sure to replace exactly what I take. It’s important to me not to exploit my brother’s kindness by stealing his alcohol, especially after he let me stay at his place. I also don’t want anyone to know I’m turning into a bit of a boozer. It’s managed because I’m aware of it. Besides, it’s only until I can make my brain forget all the nonsense that’s messing with my sleep.
Just like that night in Boston and again in Dominik’s apartment, he took something from me that I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to recover. He stole Runi from me, all the while showingme a glimpse of who he truly is. It’s difficult to ignore the possibility that he and I might be more alike than I had initially thought. Maybe he sees me in ways that I can’t see myself.
And I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about Dominik at all, so vodka it is until he no longer occupies my brain.
Glancing around the pristine, white kitchen, I notice the lingering scent of freshly baked bread, but my hunger subsides as I flick off the vodka cap and take a large swig. I nearly spit it all back up, but I push through the sting and swallow the burn. The first sip is always the most challenging, but by the fifth one, the taste barely registers.
It’s the first week of February, but as I take in the New York skyline adorned with twinkling remnants of holiday lights, a subtle warmth washes over me. An unfamiliar feeling, yet a comforting one. The lingering decorations, like specks of magic suspended in the cold winter air, offer a respite from the haunting memories that usually accompany the Christmas season for me.
Boston during Christmas felt suffused with obligation and pressure. It was a lot. But here, in this vibrant city of dreams, the energy is entirely different. The dazzling display of lights, which used to overwhelm me, now softly murmurs stories of happiness and awe.
Walking over to the plush couch, I sink into it, allowing its softness to envelop me as I cradle the Gray Goose bottle. Raising it to my lips, I take another sip, becoming more captivated by the New York skyline.
I hate the holidays or any reminders of the season, but sitting here, half drunk, I realize maybe I hate it a little less this year. It’s funny how my past doesn’t seem so haunting now that I’m not walking by dark reminders every day. Reminders of my terrible childhood and everything I didn’t get to experience. It’snot as heavy here. Maybe I can create better memories. Write a better ending for myself.
I feel so small, sitting here with my stupid problems while witnessing an entire world taking place.
I wonder what it’s like to be in one of the other lit up apartments right now. Thousands of tiny squares illuminating life right from where I’m sitting. I wonder what’s beyond each window. An older, happy couple, or maybe a new couple who just moved in together. Their stories are worlds apart, yet they are neighbors, sharing the same space and air. The same walkways and elevators. We do that a lot as humans. Pass one another by, but none of us really know what lurks beneath the masks we wear. We only allow certain people to peek beyond the door.
