“You’re one of the good ones.”

That’s it, and then she’s gone- almost without a trace, except for a grey sweatshirt and a purple toothbrush.

At first you listen to her footsteps ascend the stairs, sure she’ll come back. Then your stomach sinks a bit further as you hear the sound of the front door opening and closing.

Turning- spinning- you sink to your knees and hug the closest thing around - a chair that once belonged to your roommate’s mother. Through blurry eyes you grab at pillows that lay undisturbed atop the chair – choking them almost as hard as your eyes, which are currently attempting to hold back a barrage of tears.

That’s something new.

Then a moment of clarity presents itself. “Stop her, stupid.” You stand and stumble up the stairs, all coordination gone from having not slept the night before. Upon reaching the front door you fling it open and step out into the cold. Only a half step, a tentative step, to see if she notices you and turns back.

But she doesn’t, or at least she gives no sign of having seen you as she climbs into her car and starts the engine.

You sag a little more, now leaning against the doorframe and allowing it to support you. “Look at me” you think, trying to force the thought across the bitter cold air and into her car through a window that is too frosted over for either one of you to see past.

Frosted over? For the first time, you begin to notice the cold. A bitter, January cold. Gone is the week before, with its uncustomary warm days and its wind-breaker nights.

Now she’s moving, up the street and away from your house, but in the wrong direction. She’ll have to turn around – you know this, and so does she. Perhaps she’s only pretending to leave, so you step outside a bit further, past the frost-cloud that was your breath only a few seconds ago.

West she goes, around the cul-de-sac, and then East. Right by your house- right to the stop sign and out of site- without so much as even a glance in your direction.

She’s gone sHe’sngone sh’eson sh’s…

Now back inside you cross the floor to the door of your roommate’s bedroom - surprisingly open. You knock and he wakes up, also a surprise.

“I need to talk to you”, you begin, as you convey to him the events of the previous 4 or 5 hours. Pacing back and forth across a dulled strip of carpet, you can think of nothing more to do than to ask him to make sure she’s okay. You certainly won’t be able to for a while.

Then you’re back in your room, grabbing a pair of sweatpants, a guitar, and a toothbrush – yours, not hers. You can make it to your parents’ house before anyone wakes up, aside from your father who has now been up for an hour or two at least. You’re not sure what you’ll do when you get there, but going there gives you a plan of action, a distraction.

An hour later, you stumble up the stairs to the backdoor of the house you grew up in, fumble for the hidden key, mutter a “good morning” to a cat that’s walking around your feet, and go inside. It only takes a moment to change out of the pants you’ve been wearing for – how long has it been now? – and into the pair of sweat pants that you brought along with you.

Then with a weariness that began setting in eight hours ago, you sink down onto a couch that is at least a full foot shorter than you are and close your eyes.

The day is over. The night is over. The morning will be a bad one.