The Lack of You

Amongst all the things that do not make sense about you, your disappearance is your most mundane feature. The day you ceased existing in my life, you left me with only the residues of your thoughts. Your black notebook, neatly placed on your bed; its spine, broken; its pages, swollen; its cover: open. On its first page, dry and smudged ink announces you: Nile.

It should come as no surprise, nothing about you was permanent. You had fake piercings, wore non-prescription glasses, and never wanted to buy dishes. Even the ones I bought for you are still in the box they came in. Your apartment is hollow and filled with picture frames of us. Your plants facing the window, longing for something that is too out of reach. Only when I approach them, do I realize they are fake. Hah, Classic Nile. My hands travel the kitchen counter, in search of where you are, where you have been. But all I find is dust that swears you have not been here in a while.

Heading out of your place, your diary in my hand, I walk on the margin of shocking despair and expected reality. What can I say, you always knew how to leave me speechless, and I guess this is your grand finale. Looking at the time, I rush to work, Uncle Fazar will not have me coming in late again this week. Ten minutes into my shift, I begin to scour through the books and start preparing orders. Wow, someone has an ambitious reading list: Persi Police, Memory of the Flesh, and The Alchemist. Their covers, sealed; their pages, still intact; and their spines, sturdy. The sound of someone coughing catches me off guard. He sits in the blue reading chair surrounded by CDs, old magazines and cramped catalogues, too deep into The Forty Rules of Love to even notice me. I catch his eyes for a split second, and I cannot tell which colour they are, I guess murky? Not even better lighting could salvage their dimness.

It dawns on me that it was exactly two weeks ago, when you sat on that same chair, legs folded, with my favourite book in your hands. By the time my shift was over, you had devoured it. The bookstore is quite slow, as it usually is this time of year, so I give myself permission to reach for the last extension of me that you had touched, The Alchemist. I had read this book over twenty times, whenever I failed to understand myself, whenever hope departed my ambitions. And no matter the situation, it has always brought tranquillity into my heart. As I grab my book, the copy that I have restlessly highlighted, stained and dearly annotated, a piece of paper falls.

I almost pay no attention until a colourful logo catches my eyes, I pick it up and if I was not already distraught, I am now. “What the hell is this?” I whisper to myself. My eyes analyze the sheet and there is your full name, mine under it and on the same line is inscribed 20,000$. A check. I blink a couple of times. “What the hell is this?!” I yell and Mr. Murky Eyes looks at me, bothered by my confusion. I walk away mouthing the word “sorry”, which he ignores and shakes his head in disapproval.

Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. Twenty. Thousand. Dollars. The sentence runs in my head, as I pace around back and forth. Your money will never compensate for the lack of you. What am I supposed to do with this? What the--Who do you think you are, Nile? Do you think you can just pay me like I am the monthly electricity bill? Like I’m another grocery item on your list? Am I supposed to be okay with your disappearance now that you are paying me? To say you disappeared, however, is to omit the aspect of choice.

I step out of the store because the books and coffee air smell too much like you, for someone who is trying to escape you, I cannot leave your diary behind. And now I understand what you meant those nights, where we would lay on my bed watching movies that you deemed worthy of greatness, you would always say, “a film is nothing without its score, the story is nothing without its cinematography, the experience is the feeling it conjures.” And so because you always wanted to be a director, you left me with nothing. Back then, you argued that the opening act is the most important part of any piece, it either catches or loses you, but unlike you, I stressed that the ending remains with you, its impact is what will resonate once the details of the storyline fade. Is this your dramatic exit your way of telling me that I was right? A forced end-scene, to ensure I do not forget you, making me remember you through your absence.

My legs feel numb. I have been running for a while. I reach for my phone to check the time and the twenty thousand dollar check falls, and I am tempted to just leave it there. You know, everyone always fantasizes about what they would do if they were to win the lottery, I would go by the same order of priorities: take care of my family, buy houses, cars, travel, own a jet and of course donate to charity because I am not that selfish…

I look around me and my feet guide me to that bakery you like so much, I could picture you always attempting a French accent to impress the Italian baker every single time. Your hands would become sweaty as you curve your lips in an O-shape, practice the sounds, only for “croissant” to come out butchered.

I approach the park where we spent our summer biking, reading, having elaborate picnic plans that ended up with me falling asleep, my head resting on your lap. There is so much for Nile to stay for. I should have been enough to stay for. You still have many movie scenes to explain to me and I need to tell you about as many books. But maybe you got bored and hoped someone else was waiting for you. I will never know.

It is the beginning of April, the air is crisp, and I find my way to the bench we decided was ours. I walk up to the fence separating me from the river. I look far ahead but there is nothing to see. I look down at the water hoping to catch a glimpse of myself, as I did in your eyes. But the river is far too murky for me to see anything. You once told me that bodies of water find their ways to each other. And to quench the lack of you, to visit the closest river. I would like to think this was not planned, but all the signs point in that direction. If The Alchemist has taught me anything, is how to read omens and I cannot ignore these. I know what to do now. I take out the check and give it one last look before I tear it apart. I let it go into the river and the wind steals some fragments, but most of them go back to you, Nile.

I pick up your notebook preparing myself to depart from it, but curiosity got the better of me, so I flip its pages. The last one reveals itself with words that I have read so many times, but seem unrecognizable in your childlike handwriting:

“The lake river was silent for some time. Finally, it said:

“What a lovely story,”

You have no idea, Nile.