31 | Motions

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Winter

The coldest months are interchangeable. For some, paradoxically, the chill brings you warmth as you seek out comfort from loved ones. There's a tenderness in the air that blankets you despite the trees being made up of naked branches. For others, the winter is a dull season where the gloominess of the sky matches the faces of those who desperately wait for spring.

I, however, am stuck in the in-between. I am neither too warm nor too dejected, rather I am partly inspired and currently facing an internal quarrel. I am unable to experience the world around me as I could only weeks ago, in saturation. The consequences of separation from someone you love enters you into a realm of liminality. I am experiencing everything through a grayscale lens.

Making up for weeks of restless sleep, I wanted nothing more than to continue hiding out in my newly-owned bedroom, post-Damien. The first seven days, I was going through such emotional misery, the same way anyone else would've. I've eaten my feelings, almost drank whatever was left of the wine cellar, and have done my due diligence by crying my eyes out to mushy romance films. The next seven days after that, I began redecorating the hollow home, catching myself making changes I thought Damien would've liked. I've taken on his study as my own, filled his empty walls with my pieces, and have restained his dark walnut furniture to a dusty white oak.

"Do you ever plan on unboxing those paintings of yours?" I remember asking when I first moved in with him, courtesy of an unnamed stalker frenzy.

"One day." He replied as he usually does, always leaving me on my toes.

He had taken almost everything in his study with him but still, those cardboard boxes remained untouched in the living room. Although nosey, I forgo opening the rest of them as the last time I approached those boxes, he snuck up on me and told me about the lady in one of the paintings—his mother. Romance aside, he is still an artist to me, with visions that only he can explain. Each painting in those boxes is part of his memoir that has yet to be told and because of that, I leave them where they are, dust collecting with the tape.

Maybe this is me being optimistic, hoping he'd suddenly walk through the front door, sit down on that familiar leather couch, and spill his heart out. That is a pipe dream, I tell myself.

As most freshly heartbroken people can attest, it feels below temperature when you're no longer in close proximity with your person. As opposed to before, even if you weren't skin to skin with said lover, you were still cloaked in their presence, and knowing they were a few steps away is what kept you safe. Now, when I lay in our—my bed, no matter how many blankets I wrap myself in, I am still covered in goosebumps and chills are coursing throughout my body.

I blame it on the crack of winter but this is more than a seasonal change.

Still stuck in a liminal fever, I've been steadily going through the motions for the past twenty-two days. The routine I followed before, heavily dependent on Damien, had me waking up to watch the sunrise beside him, a cup of coffee always in hand. We'd soak in the beginning of our days together, go through our mundane tasks, and then spend the night steeped in each other's company. It is currently mid-afternoon on a Sunday and I have been asleep for the past seventeen hours.

Hearing the wind chimes whistle at the front door, I am immediately made aware that none other than Cordelia Moreau has made her way into the house. She clinks the percussion against the glass door as a way of telling me that it is her and not an intruder. Although, her appearances have become more frequent, and is running a very thin line of being borderline trespassing. She and Nicolas have only been looking out for me these past few weeks but I can't help but feel like I've been demoted and placed under child supervision.

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