069: There is a Hole in My Room
I rest my forehead against the window and wonder what it would be like to hold your hand now. Would it be sweaty, like two people dancing together for the first time? Awkward, like friends meeting in an unexpected place? Or would our fingers intertwine to bind our hands together? Staring down at my palm, I clench and unclench it. My fingers curl around empty air.
There is a hole in my room. The edges are frayed. I try to move around it, but occasionally I slip, and it rips a little wider. It is in the second dip in the sofa, in the empty chair across from me when I eat, in the forgotten toothbrush in the bathroom.
It is there when I wake up in the middle of the night, reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, and all I catch is air. My throat is parched, so I stumble into the kitchen, barely awake. My phone greets me with a call from a stranger. I decline. Fill my glass once. Twice. The phone stares at me from the window sill. The black screen is accusing. I grab it and write, 'Missed my glass this morning'.
Perhaps it is the silence that draws me to the door, or perhaps some vain hope that you came back. Hesitating, I wonder what a passerby might think if I open the door, peer out, then shut it again. But in all honesty, I do not care. I open the door, and you are there.
Written by @katrinehjulstad (Katrine H.) and @leoninepixie on Instagram
It's funny, being alone. Like, I thought I knew what that felt like ... but this silence, this emptiness, is something I haven't felt in years. It's like I'm standing in a vacuum, but there's no barrier between it and my skin, so it's sucking all the light, all the colour, out of me.
There is a hole in my room. The edges are frayed. I try to move around it, but occasionally I slip, and it rips a little wider. It is in the second dip in the sofa, in the empty chair across from me when I eat, in the forgotten toothbrush in the bathroom.
Sleeping on the left side of the bed, I curl up in a ball, hugging my knees to my chest and nuzzling my head in the nook of my elbow. See, this isn't so bad, I try to convince myself. I'm better off like this, I can keep my head straight when I'm left alone ... I try not to think about the empty space next to me.
It is there when I wake up in the middle of the night, reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, and all I catch is air. My throat is parched, so I stumble into the kitchen, barely awake. My phone greets me with a call from a stranger. I decline. Fill my glass once. Twice. The phone stares at me from the window sill. The black screen is accusing. I grab it and write, 'Missed my glass this morning'.
It's pitch black. I begin to climb the staircase, measuring out my steps one by one as I slowly make it back to my room. One, two, three ... I forget how many steps there are—is it sixteen or seventeen? Too bad, I've lost count already. I take the last step and my foot falls into a nothingness that emerges like quicksand. I'd forgotten about the hole.
Perhaps it is the silence that draws me to the door, or perhaps some vain hope that you came back. Hesitating, I wonder what a passerby might think if I open the door, peer out, then shut it again. But in all honesty, I do not care. I open the door, and you are there.
Written by @katrinehjulstad (Katrine H.) and @leoninepixie on Instagram
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