"Midnight" Part 7

And this is how it ends.

Or rather, how it begins. 

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The room is cold. 

I grope through the dim blackness to my right for the floor lap. I bump it, feel for the switch, and allow a mellow glow to penetrate the meager apartment space. I wearily walk over to the window, pull back the curtains, and stare down into the dimly-lit, foggy world below.

My home is nothing extravagant. I live in the big city, but not in luxury. It's a humble, studio apartment which means there's a kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room all shoved into one small space. The bathroom, thankfully, owns a door.

I sleep on the couch in the middle of the room. It's a foldout couch, but I'll admit on most nights I'm too lazy to haul the bed out from its comfortable hiding place. There's a long, stubby coffee table in front of the couch and a television in front of the table, nestled against the wall. The window is to the left of the television, and the kitchen is to the right. The bathroom is opposite the kitchen.

I remove my wet coat and hang it on a hook nailed into the bathroom door. I slip my sopping wet Nikes off and place them beneath the sink in the bathroom. I lay my soggy socks beside the shoes after which I immediately crinkle my nose and turn away.

Wet, pruned, smelly feet—go figure.

I lay the rest of my damp clothes across the toilet seat and quickly take a warm shower. Afterward, I pull on a white t-shirt and jersey shorts and collapse on the couch. 

It's been a long night. 

My phone beeps. I had forgotten it when I went out.

I lazily pick it up and flip open the black face. I have one missed call from a little past midnight—a few minutes after I had left.

It was her.

I freeze.

It's difficult to describe moments like this. Your limbs become rigid, but everything else begins to race. Your heart begins to pound away behind the cage inside your chest. Your mind is now fully alert and sprinting past approximately fifty-three and a half assumptions of why this person has called—expecting the worst, no doubt. You begin to sweat and slowly find the courage to move.

I clear the screen and my phone beeps once again—one new voicemail. My nerves shift into overdrive. I haven't heard from her in over a month. 

I glance wide-eyed out the window as pieces of our last conversation begin to surface. In short, things were complicated, feelings were awkward, but she didn't want to shut the door on our friendship.

So, she shut the window.

It's a different sort of pain standing outside the window of a person's life. You shove your face against the glass and peer inside, hoping to catch a glimpse of this person you were once so close to. 

And finally you do.

You see her laughing as she enters the room with other friends. They sit down and begin to talk with each other about their day and how things are going. They share stories, and they smile. They hug, and they laugh. They cry, but most of all, they love each other. You watch, disconnected and untouched, as she begins to grow and change in life, knowing that you were there, once. Perhaps you'll be blessed with a glance from her, but it’s nothing more than that. She finally leaves the room, and you're left outside standing with your face pressed against the glass like a peeping tom, wondering how you fell from grace.

It's a sickening, confusing, humiliating feeling. 

I glance at my phone as it begins to automatically dial my voicemail. I slowly press 

it against my ear. A female computer voice sprightly informs me that I have one, unheard voice message.

A few seconds of eternity later, I hear her.

I know it's late, but we need to talk. Call me back when you get this.

I listen to it about three times over, just to be sure. In the middle of the fourth repetition, I purposefully shut my phone and begin to turn it over in my hands. I pause and glance at the numbers on the clock hanging above the television.

6:32 a.m. She's asleep. Even if she's not, now is not the time. I'll call her back later today.

After about five minutes I set my phone on the table. I slowly push myself up from the couch and switch off the floor lamp behind me. A pale darkness invades the room once again as I lay down on the couch, pulling the covers up to my shoulders.

I stare at the ceiling. My body is tired and aching, but my mind and heart are wide awake. I'm nervous. I'm hopeful. Questions race. I don't think I'll ever fall asleep.

Midnight lasts so long on these nights when you can't forget.

I shift onto my left side and stare out the window. The atmosphere outside is turning gray. I hear cars honking in the distance. The world is waking up.

And somewhere behind it all, the sun is beginning to shine.