Angie, a live-in-the-now singer-songwriter on the cusp of fame, sweeps Mike, a proper Mama's boy and a structural engineer by day, off his feet the moment they shake hands.
They can't deny the chemistry between them, so they start with a boom. What'...
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▪️Saturday, February 13th, 2018▪️
▪️Chicago, IL▪️
I give her space. I detach myself from her life, even though that's the last thing I'd like to do. The opposite of my instincts, the most painful thing I can imagine doing, but if that's what she needs, I'll do it for her. I'll do anything she wishes, no matter how counterintuitive. So I remove any reminders and mentions of Angie from my life. I mute her Instagram feed. I block Google from showing me any news about her. I change my home screen to an old picture of Mom, Louka, and me from last year. Before Angie. When I thought my existence could be picture-perfect.
Like with the diet advice, I clean my life's pantry of Angie's presence. I ignore the chain that hangs slack from my heart, and resist tugging on it to find out if it's still attached on the other end. I can't allow myself to fall off the wagon, follow where it leads. I stay. Even though every day in the unknown without Angie is a dreaded routine, I will myself to survive. One morning at a time.
If I could change my life in an instant, go back and do anything differently, would I?
My answer changes every morning. Today I'm wishing I would've stayed and persuaded Angie to reveal whatever the fuck it was she built her impenetrable fences around. What is she guarding from me, from the world? Yesterday I thought honoring her wishes was the right choice. Tomorrow, I might return to thinking I'm a traitor, someone who didn't stand by the person they love. The day after . . . who knows? I still check the phone for a text or a call from her first thing I wake up.
The present might be separate for us, but the past, the past is shared. I'm part of it and I go down the memory lane more frequently after not hearing from her for three weeks. Occasionally I pretend I don't notice my fingers scrolling up, as I sneak re-readings her texts with everyday chatter, with her lyrics, with her the descriptions of the events of the day, or photos of the venues and food.
No news should be good news. Not for me. The dead air between us sucks mouthfuls of oxygen from my lungs. When I look at the screen of my computer at work, at the world rushing by when I ride, at the decals I need to pick for the walls of the dojang, I struggle to see them. With every passing hour the world around me blurs and fades. Each tiny hole her silence pokes in the thinning walls of my hope pulls me closer to running out of caring about what's going on around me. And there is so much that needs my attention.
The dojang opening is a week away, and I have more unfinished stuff to take care of than I should at this point. My decision to sink Ben's and my money and time into this passion project keeps me awake at night when thoughts of Angie leave enough space. Sleeping more than four hours became a luxury I can no longer afford. I should've let the people who have a clue about what they are doing convert the space into a restaurant. Instead, I elected to be the fool who chose a dream over the well-paid reality of my engineering job, who can't let go of the possibilities and settle for a perfectly safe and hard-earned reality, who is going to let many people down. Again.
