Better Not Be Love

CHAPTER 40 - THE JOURNAL

As I stepped back onto the set for the first time in what felt like forever, a wave of familiarity washed over me. The bright lights, the bustling crew, and the constant hum of activity—it was like coming home. The week turned out to be a whirlwind of long hours, constant shooting, and too many interactions. Though everything seemed unchanged, I couldn't shake the feeling that nothing was quite the same. My eyes, for instance, had taken on a curious habit of tearing up at the most unexpected moments. Blaming it on the omnipresent dust became my go-to explanation, and luckily no one has pointed out my lie yet.

And then there were the moments when I would find myself completely lost in thought, my mind wandering away from the present moment. While I used laughter to brush off these instances, I knew I would break soon. The dust may have been in the air, but it was also settling in my soul, stirring up emotions and thoughts that I am desperately trying to conceal.

Lorraine has always been one of those friends who just knows when something's not quite right. I mean, there I was, babbling on like a caffeinated parrot, and it was more than enough to alert her. I tried to pretend I was okay, but she wasn't convinced. And then she hit me with it. The question I had been dreading, the one I knew I couldn't avoid forever.

"How come Eugene's not around anymore?"

She asked one day, her voice gentle but laced with concern. I took a deep breath, bracing myself for the wave of emotions crashing against the walls of my heart. With a shaky voice, I told her that he wouldn't be coming anymore. I didn't go into the details and she didn't pry any further.

I expected her to scold me or tell me I had made a terrible choice, but instead she didn't judge or criticize; she simply listened, her eyes filled with empathy and understanding. And then, in true Lorraine fashion, she offered her unwavering support.

"I'll book the return tickets soon," she declared, with that determined look in her eyes. "And if you need anything, absolutely anything at all, I'll be there for you."

I couldn't help it. The floodgates burst open, and I found myself drowning in a sea of salty water droplets streaming down my cheeks. But remarkably, Lor didn't mention a word about it. She didn't make me feel embarrassed or self-conscious. Instead, she sat by my side on the couch and hugged me close.

The bed felt too empty. It was like a void that swallowed me whole, reminding me of his absence. It's funny how a simple piece of furniture can hold so much weight, both physically and emotionally. Yet, it's not just the bed that's haunting me; it's every nook and cranny of this cottage. Eugene's presence still lingers in the air, subtly whispering about the things we have done here.

I glance around and catch a glimpse of his old sweater haphazardly draped over the back of a chair. It's as if his scent still clings to the fabric, teasing my senses, and for a moment, I feel as though he's right here beside me. The thought of returning his stuff never even crossed my mind. Not because I don't want to see his face again, but these belongings, these tangible memories—they are all I have left of our time together. It may seem absurd to others that I hold on so tightly to material things, but these objects have become my lifeline, a connection to a past I am not yet ready to let go of. They serve as reminders of the laughter we shared, the tears we shed, and the love we once had. And until my heart is done mourning, until I am ready to face the world again, these traces of Eugene will stay right where they belong—with me.

Eugene and I were playing a little game of hide and seek, except I was the only one seeking and he was the master at hiding. I often found myself planted in front of his accommodations or loitering around the production team base, hoping for a random encounter. I just wanted to see how he was doing. But my efforts were in vain, as his colleagues would inform me that he was always spending an unhealthy amount of time in front of the computer. He was drowning himself in work.