I’m home again. The life I called my own, the life I left behind. The place I call home. I’ve spent four months in a distant world, trying to build a life on my own and maybe someday, it’ll feel like home. For now, I’m glad to be home.
You always had a sixth sense, just like a predator sensing fear. You somehow always know. Before I can even take it all in, my phone dings. And it’s you, asking if we could get coffee. At the same café that saw the very first day, and the last goodbye right before I left. It saw me break down, more often than I’d like to admit.
Just coffee. Just two friends catching up. I try to convince myself, a cup of coffee is harmless, right?
I see you for the first time in four months. And the coffee’s no longer harmless, it’s poison finding its way into my skin and running through my veins. It’s not a harmless conversation, it’s my eyes tearing up at the mere sight of you and my voice cracking when you ask me how I’ve been.
Coffee turns to bottles of vodka with you at midnight. Conversations turn wordless. Before I know it, I’m under your spell again. And there go the past four months I spent trying to build myself again, one piece at a time. There go the past four months I taught myself to live without you, and found happiness in that life.
It’s the same old story. The last goodbye, you telling me we’ll pick up right where we left off the next time I’m in the city and me trying not to shatter on the way to the airport. A sense of déjà vu so mockingly haunting.
One glance from across the street was all it took to undo the last four months. I spend the next four falling into the same pattern, the same old getting up and moving on. I’ve done it all before. Somehow, it’s harder this time, knowing the dangerous loop never ends.
Maybe someday, my phone will ding and I’ll turn it off. Someday, home won’t mean your arms.