Which is why, in my darkest moment, I came back.
I’ve spent the past three months afraid to leave my safe zone. Working in and around Tokyo City, healing the broken parts of myself and praying I’d forget the pain from Brooks leaving.
He was right.
I hate him.
Or more, I hate myself and the bitter extension of Brooks Riley.
Keep loving me.
I’m so mad at him for demanding I make that promise. For using me at my most vulnerable to vow something I wanted nothing to do with in the wake of my heartbreak.
I hate that I love him and likely always will.
I love that I love him hard enough that he’ll always own the deepest parts of my heart.
I hate the person he brings out in me.
I love that my love for him consumes me to a point where no one else exists.
I’m destined to love him. For keeps. For always. And for that reason, I hate the way I love him.
I check the time, knowing I should call it a night and attempt to catch a few hours of sleep before my flight tomorrow. But I can’t bring myself to leave. This place has become my security blanket, and tomorrow, I’m throwing it off.
My heart was broken, and I came to a place that could offer me peace. I overdosed on tea and spoke to flowers in an attempt to heal all that was destroyed inside me. The plants didn’t talk back, but their allure offered me a glimmer of hope. Even with a heart shattered beyond repair, grace and beauty can be found in the world. And slowly but surely, that beauty infiltrates you within, growing like a seedling and giving you the belief you can bloom again.
And that’s what I was going to do.
By. Myself.
I was going to fucking bloom.
I was going to find happiness. Alone.
Alex was right. I owed it to any man in my future to erase the longing I had for my best friend before trying to move on. It wasn’t fair. Not for them and not for me.
Standing, I smile at the couple moving to occupy the table next to mine. They return the gesture before their focus returns to one another. I don’t let jealousy overtake me like it normally would. Love isn’t something to envy. It’s something to look forward to. It’s a hard lesson to learn, a more difficult one to accept.
Paying, I hand over the equivalent of one hundred American dollars to the cashier who is as close to any friend that I have here.
“No change,” I tell her. “Use the rest toward their meal.” I point at the couple I passed just seconds ago.
“You know them?” she asks in soft, broken English.
I shake my head. “A random act of kindness.”
A wide smile forms on her face. “So nice.”
“I won’t be back for a while,” I explain. “I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Sri Lanka.”
Her eyes widen.
“Tea gardens and mountains and beaches.”
“Take me with you,” she jokes. “Be safe, Henley.”
Bags packed, I drop to the hotel room bed. It’s soft, the goose-down comforter melding around my backside the way I’d imagine a cloud would feel.
A frivolous expense, one that I don’t partake in often. I’m comfortable enough in hostels and budget motels, but every once in a while, I splurge. I use up a chunk of my very limited savings for a spa bath and king-sized bed.
I’m excited about my next adventure, at becoming lost in this big, wide world. It’s nice to know how small and insignificant I am against the backdrop of Planet Earth. My past problems seem so purportless. It’s nice.
I pick up my phone, deleting the copious text messages from Jacinta without reading them. I cut my mother from my life years ago. It wasn’t a notable moment. In fact, it had the same flair as many of our other conversations. Said with limited feeling and very few words.
She reaches out on occasion. I made the mistake of reaching back the first few times. But she only ever contacted me when she was lonely. When her boyfriend wasn’t paying her enough attention, or when she thought I’d wrangle money from Derrick for her. Which is ridiculous, considering I haven’t spoken to him since the year she dragged me from my home.
I refresh my social media. I check my emails, spam included. I scroll through my texts, just in case I missed it.
But nothing.
The one person I want to hear from, even though I don’t (I know, figure that one out and let me know once you do), hasn’t reached out.
Absolute. Radio. Fucking. Silence.
I drop back to my bed. Body splayed out on the excessive thread count as if it matters.
Brooks Riley will be the death of me.
Of my heart for certain.
What I’ve come to realize over these past months is that we’re merely pieces of a giant jigsaw puzzle in this life. Once upon a time, Brooks’s and my pieces connected perfectly. They joined without issue and helped make a beautiful image. The prettiness of the picture wasn’t complete without us side by side.
But over time, we’ve changed. Our pieces have adapted to reflect the new people we’ve morphed into.
Brooks and I no longer fit.
Forcing ourselves together only misaligns every other aspect of the puzzle. The result isn’t a beautiful picture, pieced together over time and patience. It’s worthless and, frankly, downright ugly.
If perspective has taught me anything, it’s that Brooks and I are two pieces destined for opposite sides of the expansive picture. Maybe, one day, as we change and mature and morph into the people we’re meant to be, our jigsaw will connect once again. But for now, we’re just two pieces of a billion, wondering if we’ll ever find where we belong.
The past three months have been a trip down memory lane like no other.
