The world breeds billions and billions of people every year. Nobody should expect every single one to be happy. The number is always odd and therefore, someone always gets left out. Amidst a sea of happy hearts, one is sickly and tired and angry. Look at the city, look at those feet tirelessly wandering through the streets. Directions are uncertain, motives are insignificant. Mechanically walking about as if life’s meaning is out there walking along with them. Everyone hopes to bump into it. There’s anxiety. A crucial need for saving. It can’t be helped.
“Okay, I’m going to hang up now. You won’t love me anyway even if I stay on the line.”
“You’re free to do what you want, darling.”
“See? I hate it when you say things like that. Why can’t you at least pretend that you care?”
“It’s four in the morning, Georgia. Get some sleep. We’ll talk again later. You know my number.”
“What if that stupid boy Mitchel answers again?”
“He won’t. We’ve got caller ID. I’ll know for sure when it’s you.”
“Sometimes I wish you were real.”
“Oh, but I am. I’m always here. I’m as real as anyone else in the world.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just an idiot who listens to people for a living. None of this is real.”
“Trust me. I’m real.”
“Fuck you.”
How sad is the heart left out by the world? It beats for nothing. It wants to die and survive at the same time. If you really think about it deeply, it should be admired. It deserves recognition of some sort. It’s bound to live alone forever, but it tries and tries. It’s been stomped on by so many, but still, it tries. There is hope in it. That there’s one other heart in the world that’s meant to find it. But. We know that day will never come. So, why?
I remember very well the last time. There were red sheets, pillows, and alcohol. A shirtless you lying motionless, smelling of pineapple and cigarettes. It’s so clear to me still that I feel like I’m there again. In your studio apartment with one king size bed and no couch. Hardwood floors, white walls and ceiling, barely lit, and filthy. The feeling: apart from the many questions in my head including, “How did this happen?”, there was also, “Please let this be real.”
“How many times have you fallen in love?”
“How is this going to help you, darling?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Plenty of times. I’ve loved so many women in my life that I know what it feels to be alive and dead at the same time.”
“Then you’re lucky.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I’ve loved so many, too. But no one has ever loved me back.”
“But I didn’t say that any of them loved me back. Still, they made me feel things and surely, that must mean I’m alive.”
“For some reason, I refuse to believe you.”
“You’re a cynic pretending to be a romantic. Nothing will ever please you.”
It’s a baffling thing—existing without anything. Not even a set of instructions. Everyday, you wake up without knowing what it’s for. Why not sleep your life away instead? Why not jump off a cliff? Drive recklessly, run across the freeway with a blindfold on, tie a rock onto your feet and jump into the ocean, stop breathing.
“A letter. I love letters.”
“Who wrote you, Georgia?”
“Someone from long ago.”
“Well, let’s hear it.”
“Sorry. It’s private.”
“Well, what do you call me for?”
“That’s also none of your business.”
Georgia, I remember the days when I was fifteen and you were seventeen. It was a small town made up of less than a thousand people. I was reading a book by Jane Austen that you hated. You sat beside me and smirked. “It’s about love,” I said. You looked away. “Everything’s about love, Anne. You just have to know how to read between the lines.” You smiled and I only remember falling into your blue eyes—eyes that revealed a deeper sadness than I’d ever seen before. It was sickening. But I stared until tears slid down my face. I tried not to blink, afraid that you’d disappear and then none of it would be real. But I did and then you were gone.
“Peter, I’m not real.”
“What are you saying, dear?”
“Stop calling me dear. Or darling. I am not real.”
“Would you like to talk about it?”
“All we ever do is talk about it.”
“I don’t understand. I’m sorry.”
“That’s what I get for five bucks an hour, I suppose.”
“You don’t have to be so mean. Are you lonely?”
“I’ve always been. Weren’t you listening?”
“But there’s so much to live for. What about that letter?”
“Anne. I could have saved her. I had the chance, but I didn’t do anything.”
“Who’s Anne?”
“The loneliest girl in the world.”
“How do you know?”
“I broke her heart.”
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