Purple Orchid

Walking into the empty room, I felt different. I pictured the tapestries on the walls and the cushions covering the floor. It was no bigger than a closet; in fact, that was the original intention. There was one small window. When I first saw it I thought it might be cause for depression, but as I got to know her, I realized it was her place of comfort, of safety. The door was never locked, I knew that I would always be welcome, even when she wasn’t there. Slowly, it became my place of safety as well.

In that era, I thought my time was up. I felt no purpose and often questioned why I was where I was. She changed that in me. I had never met someone with whom I shared so many experiences at such parallel times. It felt as though I had met my other half. In the back of my mind, I knew the attachment I had to her had the potential to hurt me, but I was dedicated to helping her, making her life a little more bearable. I knew she had no intention of permanence, and I shared that perspective. We had often talked about the idea of leaving, of ending the pain; we had come to the agreement that this was not an option, for the sake of those we loved.

I don’t think I ever fully believed her. The more I tried to understand her mind, the less it made sense. I know that she saved me in more ways than one; I knew I would not have made it through those painful years without the comfort of knowing I could come home to that tiny room and see her face, smiling through the pain for the sole reason of making me happy. She knew that her misery caused me pain, and she wanted to spare me the hurt.

In the months before I left, I saw her become progressively less a person than a spirit. It was clear that her place was not here, but she didn’t know where it was. She made the effort to function as a human, take classes, make friends, but slowly she retreated further and further into her mind. I wish I’d known at the time how far away her mind was getting. I began to help her, to do her work, to bring her coffee and convince her to get out of bed and talk to me. It brought me comfort to know I was helping her, but in the back of my mind I knew that someday I wouldn’t be there to save her. And then I left.

It took months before I got the call, but I knew it was coming. I was sitting with some friends, laughing and enjoying one another’s company. I hadn’t thought about her in a couple days. My phone rang and my gut clenched, but I didn’t know why. I was too afraid to answer. It rang again and I prepared myself for the worst, not really believing that it would be.

At first, I didn’t believe it. She had promised; we promised each other. I thought she loved me too much to break that promise. I pictured the tiny room, drenched in color, and realized that I’d never see it again. I’d never see HER again. I remember nothing else, except falling to the floor, expecting to die. The promise we made mirrored the domino theory: if one of us left, the other followed.

But I didn’t die. I had to live with the reality of being half alive for the rest of my time on this plane. She was gone. I believed it for the first time.

The next morning, I woke up with the smell of her so strong in my nose I thought it had to have been real. I had never been an early riser, but I saw the sunrise shining through my window and a feeling of comfort. I heard her laugh, so clearly she could have been sitting right beside me. It was so contagious I began to laugh too. They thought I was crazy; why would I be laughing when my worst nightmare had come true? But I couldn’t help it; it was my favorite sound in the world.

And I realized I wasn’t alone.

I’d never be alone again.