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I’m not sure where I’m going.
I wasn’t planning on leaving the house today at all, but spending a whole day in my room by myself proved to be too much. One second I was staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, my head spinning and my heart squeezing painfully, the next I was starting my car.
The little, blue car Charlie used to call all sorts of silly names.
It’s not like today’s date is special or anything. It’s also not like I can’t go a minute without wallowing in self-pity and crying about what I used to have. I’ve developed ways to suppress heartbreak-related thoughts and feelings until I can safely let them out, and I’ve been doing well in uni. I’ve found new friends and kept in touch with some of the old ones. My life has changed and I’m okay with what it looks like now.
That’s in Leeds, though.
The ghost of Charlie and what we had still permeates every nook and cranny of my childhood house. I’ve had a whole year to get used to it, or, preferably, get over it, but I haven’t made much progress yet. Admittedly I haven’t been trying all that hard.
I drive into the town and roll the windows down, letting the barely warm breeze hit my face and mess with my hair. If I thought leaving the house would stop the onslaught of random memories of piercing, blue eyes and dimpled smiles, I was terribly wrong. This car is just as full of them.
Without looking to my left, I can vividly picture him in the passenger seat. His knees close to his chest, his hands drumming on them to whatever song is playing from the speakers—or, considering that the windows are down, more probably just in his head. His eyes, crinkled with laughter and sparkling with joy, wandering between the views outside and my face. His curls, absolutely fucked up by the wind. He’s whining that they're too long and unruly, but he still makes them look pretty. He always looks pretty.
I haven’t seen him in a year, but I know it’s still true.
I make my way out of Truham and turn onto a side road. Suddenly I know exactly where I’m going.
Visiting our spot™ might be the exact opposite of what I initially wanted to do, but now that I’m so close to it, it’s like it’s calling to me. Going there now, when I’m back home for a longer while and I'm left to my own devices for the first time since the last summer holidays, feels like the right thing to do. Maybe I just need some sort of closure.
When I get there, just the sight causes my breath to catch in my throat. Nothing has changed here. It’s like the riverbank has been frozen in time just as we left it. The same forest around the same clearing; the same wooden gazebo with the same tables and benches; the same sounds of the water flowing and the birds chirping overhead.
We’ve spent so many summer evenings here, cuddling on the riverside, snacking on the biscuits I had made and whispering sweet nothings under the night sky until we couldn’t keep our eyes open anymore.
I look at the glove compartment, weighing the pros and cons of opening it in my head. I know the letter he gave me is still in there. I’ve read it so many times when I first got it that I could probably still quote it word for word. I take it out anyway.
Closure.
The paper is crumpled, some words illegible where both of our tears landed. It’s somewhat comforting to know that writing it hurt him just as much as reading it hurt me.
It’s just a tad too dark outside for me to be able to read the letter, so I stay in the car and turn on the light.
No matter how many times I read them, the words never start making sense to me. Charlie wrote about how he wanted me to be happy, to have a good uni experience without him holding me back. He thought I'd be worrying about him all the time and that it would be bad for me. He said he didn't want me to grow to resent him.
What a load of bullshit.
I still don't know what made him think all that. I tried my best to assure him that I loved him more than anything and that going long-distance wouldn't change it. It wasn't enough, I guess.
The moment I finished reading the letter for the first time, I ran to Charlie's house. I had to tell him how wrong he was. That he was the love of my life. Tori was the one to open the door. She looked torn between doing what she thought would be best and what Charlie asked of her. She decided to honor Charlie's wishes and closed the door in my face with a whispered sorry and an apologetic face.
I fold the paper with a shaky breath, put it back in the glove compartment and exit the car. I lean back on the mask, close my eyes and throw my head back, letting the sound of water flowing in the river in front of me ground me. After a minute or two of deep breaths I open my eyes again to a canopy of stars. The sight makes me let out a deep sigh.
The stars remind me of Charlie as well.
I don't know if it’ll ever get easier. We were just teenagers, we still are, but our lives were so intertwined, so tightly woven together, that going on on my own still feels wrong. Like that's not how it should be.
I realize now that if I want closure, coming here, reading the letter for the hundredth time and contemplating it might not be enough. A part of me is certain Charlie didn't really believe what he wrote. It's not like any of the points he made came as a surprise to me; we'd talked about our concerns and worries at length before the disastrous fight at Harry's party. I still wonder what caused that fight in the first place.
If I want to know what happened and why Charlie pushed me away like that, I have to talk to him. I desperately want to, but I have no idea how to approach him. I don't know if I should. He blocked me everywhere, and he clearly instructed Tori, and most probably the rest of his family, to turn me away if I appeared on their doorstep.
What do I do?
I stare at the stars flickering above me and let myself get lost in memories again. We used to come here and stargaze together, looking for constellations we knew (or, more accurately, he knew) or connecting the dots to create new ones. We'd look for shapes in the clouds, too. He told me seeing shapes in different shapes was called pareidolia. I hate that I remember that.
I wonder where he is right now. Is he looking at the stars, too? Do they remind him of me?
Once again it hits me how much I miss just having him in my life. Our inside jokes, the endless flow of texts and falling asleep on video calls. His eyes, looking up at me with so much love and affection. Holding and kissing him whenever I wanted. Tangling my fingers in his curls and poking his dimples. Playing games together and him reading classic books to me.
I miss us.
Before I know it, I've wasted hours on reminiscing. I text mom to tell her I’ll be staying the night at Imogen’s so she doesn't worry, then I crawl into the back seat of my little, blue car and cry myself to sleep.
Closure, my ass.
I wake up later than I thought I would. My head hurts from all the crying and thinking I did last night and my stomach grumbles loudly when I move, so I decide to go to my favorite coffee shop. Their drinks and pastries might be slightly overpriced, but I reckon I deserve a treat.
And yes, we used to go there together. I'm on a masochistic roll.
The second I enter the coffee shop, I'm overcome with nostalgia. This time it doesn't make me cry, it just envelops me in warmth and familiarity.
The girl behind the counter looks up at me and her eyes light up in recognition. She asks if I want the usual which takes me aback. I haven't come here since me and Charlie broke up, and I’m surprised she remembers me that well, but I nod and order a chocolate croissant to go with it. The price she tells me seems higher than I remember, but I pay without a second thought and head to our my favorite spot—the small table in the corner.
I busy myself with my phone while I wait. It isn't long before the sound of dishes being put down on my table makes me look up and— oh.
The barista tells me to enjoy my drink and leaves before I can make sense of what's in front of me. Staring back at me are two coffees. Our usual.
I've never been here alone. She must've assumed Charlie would be joining me soon. I wish he was.
I take a sip of my drink and look at the other cup. I'm not sure what to do with it; it's not my favorite, exactly. Charlie has always liked his coffee strong and bitter. My palate is way too soft for that.
Charlie used to rib me about my child-like palate all the time.
I let out a loud breath and wink a couple of times to not let the sudden wetness spill from my eyes. I thought I had shed all the tears I had in me last night. Apparently not.
I eat and drink in silence, my gaze glued to the untouched cup as I let the din of the coffee shop wash over me. I just finished my croissant when someone approaches my table. They don't speak up nor move away, so I lift my head. And then my heart stops beating.
He eyes the full cup and my half-finished glass, then looks up at my face. He smiles softly, just enough for one dimple to show.
“Hi,” he says, his voice as gentle as I remembered it. All I can do is blink.
“Hi.”