Static. Breathless. Peacefully. I am sitting on the kitchen counter counting the little shells I found on the late-night walk at the beach the night before. As I look at them steadily, I separate them into shades of white and brown. I start naming them one by one with a memory that reminds me of you, one that reminds me of us. I have a book in the form of shells in my hands now, each one is a chapter to our story. I know I can’t hold into our memories anymore, but these shells will. They will keep our memories safe.
You walk into the kitchen and ask “what am I doing there?”
“The chairs we bought on the day we moved in together are comfortable enough, right? They are still strong enough, right?” you ask.
I wish I could tell you that for me, everything from that day seems too blurry now. Too weak now, but I just giggle and quickly jump from the counter. I stretch my arms and legs and reach toward your body for a hug.
“Can you feel this?” I ask, but you stay silent.
“Can you feel this love between us?” I ask again, and you stay silent.
“Can you feel my body now?” I ask, but you remain silent.
I take a step away from you, grab all the little shells, and put them in a small pocket inside my backpack. My therapist says it is always a good exercise to physically carry in our bags what we cannot mentally let go of. I grab every single one of them one by one, remembering the names that I gave them before. Remembering the story they promised to hold.
“Let’s go,” you say while grabbing my hand.
We walk out of the door, and I confirm a couple of times that the door is locked. Locking the door is important. They say that if you lock the door of your home fast enough, the good memories will not escape. They will not go away. We continue our way; I tell you about how amazing birds are to me. I tell you about how different the sunsets are since I learned to see them with your eyes. I tell you how irrelevant our existence is because our reality is fading the minute I talk. I tell you about how my body is marked by your love. Marked as a well-known map. You look at me, pass your fingers over my watery eyes, and kiss my forehead. You explain people can only give what they have and that you have felt incomplete all your life. And I, forgive you.
As we continue walking, we arrive at the beach at the perfect moment. The sun reflects in the water, making me feel the entire world is just one enormous chunk of sky and water. No land. No endings. Nothing. I take my shoes and clothes off as if this was something I would regularly do, as if the water does not scare every bone of my tiny body. I run. I run as fast as I can, as if I could run away from the inevitable ending of our love. As if my body could escape the pain, or the fear of your absence. I run as if your cold words couldn’t catch me or hurt me. I run towards the sea and start swimming. With a trembling voice, you ask me not to go too far away. You know I never listen. I know you still try.
The icy water is not enough to prevent me from swimming until my toes are unable to touch the sand. The sun is shining on my face, memories of broken promises on my mind: “Swim,” I tell myself.
The water flowing through my hair, hands, and legs: swim.
My feelings running through my skin in the form of fish: swim. My memories are going away with the waves. It’s so real. I listen to the sea singing our story. I stop. “This is far enough,” I think.
I look back to the coastline. You are not there. I stare at the coast from the other side. The side I have never seen before. The side where you are not there. I try to find you. I look for the shape of your body lost in the sun's reflection. You're not there. It’s impossible for you just to abandon me in here, right? Not like this. A loud wave of silence governs the beach. In the silence, I listen to the blood inside my chest.
“How can calm be so violent?” I ask myself.
Eventually, I start thinking about coming back but my legs are not working. My eyes remain on the horizon, my hands hold my arms as if that shelter would protect me from the terrible mess I put myself in in the first place. I try to scream but my voice is wrecked.
“Don’t go too far,” I say with a trembling voice. I know you never listen. You know I still try.