I kind of forget about the day after breakfast with Ryan. It feels like fog through my fingers as I try to hold onto it and use it. I keep shifting around in an attempt to fill the time, but it feels like there is too much space. And they are too silent. Like I have no idea where I'm going and I'm standing in a hallway without any doors.
I spend some time sitting by the window. Do you know those clouds that seem to have meaning? None of them speak to me as I watch them change shape. It's like the soft white paint in the blue canvas. Perhaps I could give one a name, some sort of identity, I reasoned. However, they continue to drift and disappear behind that horizon. Probably they are going to meet their loved one.
I stroll along the rose garden's perimeter and attempt to count petals. It was colours at first, but then the colours began to confuse me. There are too many ways to feel red, pink, and white. There is purple too. I never watch them too close but today I did. Once, I had a dream to have all the colourful roses in my garden, but this is not my garden. I wonder why he also love roses. Did he plant them himself. I just count petals now.
I even open a book, a familiar feeling. They are way to escape the real world but today I've read the same sentence countless times, and even if someone paid me, I couldn't tell them what it said.
By the time dusk softens the sky, I'm sketching once more. As usual, the ring is the same. Today, however, the lines don't feel dreamlike or floating. They weigh more, they have a bone-like texture. I wrap it in curling petals. They are coiled, as if bracing, rather than delicate. Tomorrow I'll make a bracelet probably.
I give the title to the page. Its "He gave me space, not peace."
I eat dinner by myself and he's not present.
-----
The following morning is timid. As if it also doesn't want to be here. Me as well.
A soft, apologetic light curls in through the curtains. I lie there because I can't think of a good reason to get out of bed. It's not because I'm tired, but because it paints the bed in pale lines. These days I hate every morning.
I fit in with everything here. Sheets, clothing, and the room's dimensions. I don't fit it, though.
Still, I get up. I wear wide-leg trousers and a soft ivory jumper, no cosmetics. I have no desire to perform today cause I'm too tired. My hair is braided back, easy and loose. I promise myself that I will eat breakfast. Not for him but for myself.
It's still cold in the conservatory, It's still too large.
It was meant to be covered with plants, isn't it? However, it is not, never. Only gleaming surfaces and the resonant silence is present. If I'll sit here I think I'll start having hallucination. I think I should change it not for him but for myself.
Opposite seat is reserved, probably for him. Poached eggs and toast, it's same as yesterday but except he is not here. I was staring a flawless white serviette, as if it will remind me that there is life inside me.
Then I hear him, his steps.
Ryan enters, the same grey slate suit as always, crisp and quiet. The click of polished shoes on marble, it's echoing. He steps into the room with a kind of quiet confidence, carrying the light with him that is soft and angle. Morning light that seems to bend around his silhouette as if it recognises him, as if it's done this before. He appears to agree with the morning, fits into it seamlessly but for me it was never that kind.
He sits down and says, "Good morning."
I sit across from him and ask, "Is it?"
We don't talk while we eat. Then he says, "I'm going to the board meeting in an hour," without turning to face me.
"You want me to come?" I ask.
He doesn't stop. "No."
"Then, why bother telling me?" I act as though it doesn't hit. I set my fork down. "Today I have to go shopping."
He says, "I'll instruct the driver to take you."
I gaze at him, "Simply hand me the keys. I am able to go alone."
At last, he turns to face me. Something is flickering. "Suit yourself," he shrugs.
With ease and practice, he finishes his coffee as if it were nothing. However, he turns around just before he departs.
He declares, "You can do anything you want. However, freedom should not be confused with love."
The door suddenly clicks shut. All of a sudden, I'm no longer hungry.
I return to my room and sit on the bed with my sketchbook in my lap and my legs crossed. I turn to last night's page. The ring of roses looks back at me. It resembles a mirror more than art.
I have no desire to go out, not right now. Instead, I pick up my sketchbook and go to the garden. I now love the rose garden. Not due to its beauty. However, it's quiet in a way that makes no demands. I don't have to give an explanation. I also adore roses them even those that retaliate.
I locate my typical seat. The metal feels familiar but cold. I draw after opening to a blank page.
I didn't know how the time passes, the sun wasn't that ruthless to me. The staff gave me fruits to eat and now it's almost dusk.
I sense him behind me, I'm positive it's him. I'm not even looking.
He says, "So you didn't go today." His voice now sounds as if it belongs here.
"Do I need to explain myself to you?" Still drawing, I ask.
No answer. The mere sound of his presence. "I thought you were only into sketches," he said quietly. I had no idea you created such things.
At last, I raise my head. He's looking at my page. The ring of roses.
"What is it?" he asks.
"Can't you see, it's clearly here, a ring."
He takes a deep breath, "Love, I see it but what is it?"
Now I realise he was asking about its meaning, "It's what love feels like," I say. "Initially, soft. But you bleed if you're not careful."
He remains silent.
I turn the page and say, "Don't worry, it's not a genuine ring. I'll get the art supply to make one tomorrow"
He sits next to me. Not quite touching, but close. But closer than usual. "It ought to be genuine," he asserts.
I take a sidelong glance. "Why do you think that?"
"Because it seems like someone intended it." We spend some time sitting in silence.
"Why do you draw so much?" he asks.
I glance down at my hands, it's stained with ink. "Because I think when I'm not drawing." And I get hurt when I think.
He's looking at the sky, probably focusing how the sky changes, "That's the first sincere thing you've told me."
"Is it?"
He gives a nod. "Everything else was like armour."
I shut the sketchbook. "How about you, Ryan? When you're hurt, what do you do?
He turns to face me. "I close doors and leave before I hear them approaching."
I gulp. The garden is waiting.
"Is it the same way, you treat me?"
He doesn't respond. But I already understand.
I remain, I have to return back to my room.
Just one word. Still, it has a lot. That means I sit once more and this time, he sits much closer.
Perhaps that is the most hazardous action he has taken.
At times, silence is not peace. You wait there, wishing someone arrives. He set me free and he would claim I was always free.
However, feeling wanted is not the same as being free. When no one is asking you to stay, the sound of an open door and an empty room is identical.
Perhaps that is the actual reality.
I wasn't pushed away by him. Simply put, he never asked me to stay.
I return to my room. I sleep with the sketchbook next to me that night. I don't feel completely alone for once. When someone chooses to sit with you in silence, even silence feels different.
He gave me the option to leave, but not the justification to stay.
Since they were never intended to be concealed, perhaps the most painful truths are also the softest.