Finding Eden

18

The pale sun faced me once again and it was too eerily similar to the one many months ago. Unwillingly, I let a shiver loose along my back and it travelled to my fingers where they fiddled with the buttons on my blouse.

"So soon?"

It was Charles. He was spread on the bed, hair a mess, skin glowing bronze despite the dim lighting and childishly tugging at his cheeks.

"Early bird-"

"Gets the worm. I get it."

"Sorry," I said and bent down to give him a kiss on the forehead. I missed when he tilted his head and my lips met his eyelid. They crinkled and lifted his nose up where I landed another peck there.

"Lower," he mumbled.

"Gotta go."

He didn't listen and instead chose to wrap his hot hand around my wrist, demanding more affection and it wasn't long before I gave in.

"You smell good," he said lowly and buried his head in my neck.

"Well that's what perfume is."

He groaned and gave up his pursuit, allowing me to pack my shoulder bag.

"Call me if you need a ride."

I waved before I crossed his apartment to get out. It was suffocating being in a relationship sometimes. My thoughts no longer became my own and my motives were never for just one person. I didn't like the worry that came with is he safe or will he be worried and the fact that he could just be one of the many volatile, unpredictable beings that have littered my world.

There was also the barrier between past and present I never wanted to cross with anyone. Too many questions, too many tears is what I've come to learn. And if, only if, he chose to stay, he would stay a long time and from what I've experienced, long times lead to bad times.

***

If it wasn't clear before, I was apprehensive approaching the familiar street signs, tapping on the handle of the cab. Only when the driver's eyes shifted in the mirror, did I stop.

There it was and it was if his house had somehow inched closer to mine and the space in between was nonexistent and it was as if everything on that street shrank except for the two monuments before me. One after and both befores. His lawn didn't carry roses anymore and instead held something low maintenance—peonies to be exact (I had searched it up when I got home).

Dust greeted me when I opened the door. I knocked over the stand of umbrellas in the process but when I breathed in, I knew. I knew of what lay waiting in the closets and what would welcome me back once more and I knew that the piano on the third floor needed tuning and my heart, understanding.

It hurt, to be precise.

So I avoided the third floor, my room, and the kitchen and stuck to rummaging in the garage, hoping some CDs would be in there. My childish antics didn't last long before I found myself bounding up the stairs, two by two, hands already pushing my hair up into a bun.

It wasn't long before a piece by Chopin waltzed around and not long before my legs followed. I revered the familiar course my actions followed and felt secure in my movements. After half a year of foreign studios and insufficient lighting, this was heaven. The moment I landed a jeté, nostalgia flooded back to me and I found tears on my hands instead of sweat.

God.

It wasn't the same. My fingers fumbled with my bag, and then my phone — completely tearing apart the graceful compositions of my feet.