December

The air feels cold inside her lungs. Everything seems washed out, despite the darkness. She leans back against the building for support. Nearly dropping her phone twice, she wedges it in between her shoulder and cheek, wiping her clammy hands on her coat. It rings through to voicemail and all the air she has been holding inside falls out.

She sits on her floor, the walk home blurry. This wasn't supposed to happen. She writes out a list of options, putting pros and cons next to each. It doesn't seem to help. Pulling herself into bed, she resolves to pack in the morning.

Light finally drifts through the curtains. She booked her tickets some time around 4 a.m. when she had officially given up on sleeping. Her bag is mostly packed too. The search through her phone contacts is fruitless; she had deleted his number weeks ago. A few embarrassing calls later and she has it. It's still early, but there's nothing else on her mind.

The phone call was as uncomfortable as expected. There were a lot of quiet pauses. They agree to meet when she gets back. She will tell him then, in person. Her parents still haven't called back. She gets through to them on the train and tries to explain. Yes, right now. I'll call when I get there. It's the 9:07 a.m. I'll see you later.

She opens a book and reads the same page three times before giving up. The train is quiet and there is nothing to be distracted by. Specific plans hadn't been made for the other end. She will call him from the station.

He is at the platform and she pushes her phone back into her pocket. They talk about nothing in particular, walking round aimlessly. He brings up his new maybe-girlfriend and asks her how she feels about it. She knows it doesn't matter, but congratulates him nonetheless. She tells him quickly in a fumble of words, before she can back out of it completely. Without giving him a chance to respond, she says she doesn't want it. Doesn't think so, anyway. His face doesn't change. She tells him to call later when he has had time to think. Walking away without a response, she doesn't want to wait around and watch the process.

She realises she hasn't called her parents. Evening has crept in and taken over the sky. She is wrapped in a blanket on her bed, staring at the wall. Her mother is on the end of her bed. She isn't sure how long they have been talking. They have covered everything and more, but it still doesn't feel like enough. Every ring puts her on edge. He hasn't called back yet. She hopes he will.

Icy Patches

It's the stupid, small details that will get you in the end. It is the fact that something actually happened two days earlier, and somehow that changes everything. It's the fact that he took her with him on that trip. You just don't get to know these thing anymore. You're not in the loop. 

That's the problem with the small details. They pop up in Twitter feeds and fall out of people's mouths when they aren't looking. But they are so seemingly insignificant that no one else seems to understand when you need to take three deep breaths or walk away. Because suddenly your chest has got a little too tight. There's an ache in your stomach that would need a knife to justify it. And no one understands why those few days make any difference. Maybe you would have acted differently if you had know then. But you didn't know, whether your dates are right or slightly off. You acted the way you did with the information you had at the time and it has past. There is nothing you can do to change it.

It doesn't matter if he took her on that trip too. He could take her or he could not take her and that doesn't change anything. You could know about it or not and that still doesn't change anything. They feel the way they feel and you feel the way you feel and sooner or later you will let the dust settle. It still hurts and you can still feel the black scribbles just below your breast bone. But they will gone by the morning.

You just need to keep reminding yourself one thing: you are moving forward. Sure, details like these are icy patches on the ground; you didn't see them coming and you slipped. Sometimes you catch yourself before you go down and sometimes you don't. Sometimes there's someone there and sometimes there's not. But you are still moving forward. That icy patch and all the others are there but they aren't going to stop you. Maybe they take your breath for a few seconds or maybe they knock you down for a day. But you are going to keep going. And the icy patches will get less. One day there might not be any. But it doesn't matter if they are gone in five months or two years. They aren't going to stop you.