What is Left Unrequited

Part III

Celia's morning on the 2nd of July began at the police station. Olwethu could not be with her because she committed to staying home to help take care of Galaxia. Their priority has always been to make sure that you are both always taken care of, in whatever way you needed.

After spending the better part of six days in solitude, your parents discovered Galaxia collapsed on the floor. She had made it as far as the bathroom door, but ultimately did not have the strength required to carry herself before her body caved in. She has denied herself any kind of nourishment for the full six days, and the human body can only last for so long without it.

Olwethu unearthed a vile of your prescribed sleeping pills buried in the bedsheets whilst changing the linen. The canister remained sealed, with all the pills inside accounted for, but your parents can't move past imagining an instance where they were not.

I found Celia curled up against a tree-tucked away from the wandering gaze of passers-by so they could not see her cry. She had called earlier to ask if I could come pick her up from the police station. "Olwethu has her hands full with Galaxia and the preparations... for this weekend," she said over the phone, exhaling a mouthful of cigarette smoke to distract from her choked voice. I pulled my Jeep into the vacant parking slot across from her so she could find it with little trouble when she was ready to leave-whenever that would be.

We drove back in silence. Celia had nothing left to say, and I had nothing to ask. She had just spent the day wasting questions on an audience of police officers who could not understand why she was there to begin with. "Ma'am, we have arrested the man responsible for your daughter's death. Please go home and let the law take its course," advised the officer at the front desk. Every officer she then spoke to alluded to the same piece of 'advice.' She had to leave when she realised she would not be receiving the closure she was looking for from the authorities. In the end, hearing their 'advice' helped her draw to a single conclusion in that they had given the same speech so many times that they truly believed their own words. She just could not bring herself to find the same solace.

I remained in the car after Celia had left. She insisted I come in with her, but I insisted on having a cigarette before I did. I've never smoked a day in my life. It was easier to have her think I did because the truth is a more jagged pill to swallow. I am afraid of facing a house full of your closest friends and family. When I step out of this car, I'm afraid of spending the next few hours listening to stories about what an extraordinarily remarkable person you were, because they will all refer to you in the past tense. I'm afraid that tomorrow will inevitably come, and I will have to say goodbye to you, after which I am expected to heal. But with healing comes the misconception of being 'okay,' and I don't want to be okay. I don't want to say goodbye to you. I don't want to meet your family this way, and I don't have to if I never leave this car.

I want to drive to our mutual friend's house on that Saturday, the 27th of June, and once again spill my drink on your dress so that I can apologise for another nineteen times, which will ultimately lead to me learning your name. I want to steal another moment with you out in the stars and absorb your radiance through the glow of the fire once more. I want to subtly reach for your hand again, and this time, never let go.

I know I can't have that, but at this moment, right here in my car, I can hold your hand forever because I held them once, and I will carry the memory of their warmth in mine through the illusion of past, present and future.

Until we meet again.

Sincerely yours,

THE END.