The gentle light of early six o'clock morning barely whispered through the ivory drapes, casting an ethereal outline that teased my waking senses. I was almost convinced it was you, with your copper shadow traced against the satin fabric like you had just strolled by unannounced. But when I rolled over to reach out, the other side of the cashmere mattress was ice-cold, untouched by your fiery warmth. The boundary of our shared realm, marked by a single beam of sunlight slicing through the smooth sheet, felt like a chasm I dared not cross but only in my wildest dreams. My shattered, once infrangible heart throbbed with a relentless ache as I lay there, the void of your infinite absence enclosing me like a suffocating shroud.
“When will I see you again?” I whispered to no one, my voice barely audible. The boron-colored bedside table stood dusty and purposeless in the dim morning glow, with your watch no longer resting where you last placed it. A silent plea escaped my soft lips, a prayer to an unoccupied room, where you decide for both of us to turn the page and end this chapter of our book.
“Please, come back to me,” I muttered as echoes of our unfinished actions and laughter resonated in the endless quiet. That wall we never completed painting cobalt blue loomed, immune to our halted life.
My morning ritual felt like an incantation, a desperate attempt to summon you through the familiar as I meticulously brewed the aromatic coffee straight from your enchanting archipelago, the only one I always buy, and did it exactly how you favored it—with three packets of brown cane sugar. The integral toast, slathered with the grape jam you found overly sweet, was ready as I kissed the foamy steam rising from my cinnamon-covered cappuccino, imagining and wishing it was your lips instead.
“I have the table set,” I mumbled to the emptiness of our dining room, arranging the white plates, the golden toast on the top left, scrambled eggs at the center, and the freshly local squeezed orange juice with pulp shimmering on the right. Each tear that fell from my swollen eyes to the spotless napkin on my lap was a silent tribute to my everlasting longing, and the marbled table prepared for two, yet occupied by a lonely one, me.
Laughter pierced through my bitter and hollow tears. “I envy how well you are without me,” I confessed to the empty house ambiance, wiping my eyes dry with my hands as I realized that no matter how desperately I wished or prayed, I knew it was useless because you were long gone, existing in a realm without me as I remained here, tortured by your absence.
“It is not the same without your clothes strewn on the floor,” I purred in chilling solitude to a house that reverberated with the ghostly echo of your aura as my gaze could almost see traces of your dark tan dress shoes, torn shirt, and the crinkled pants on the cold, gleaming tiles we once debated on.
You used to hate finding my hair in the sink I typed on my phone a message into the void of our SMS chat that you will never get, see, or answer. I would give anything to clean it again after we fought over it. Such trivial annoyances of shared spaces, once annoying, now ignited my yearning for the chaos I desperately longed for.
The chaos that would always end underneath our sheets.
As dusk approached, the scent of morning coffee vanished, and the setting sun cast a copper shadow across my balcony that looked uncannily like you. My abandoned, crushed heart leaped at the sight, a cruel trick of the light that brought tears back.
I’m sorry for the times I made you delete those photos I typed into my phone, another text message you will never even know when this Solar System ceases to be as the memories of those candid snaps, once unwanted, now were treasures I hankered to reclaim.
As the day waned, and I sat at the marble table where two should have dined, where the six o'clock evening coffee brewed just for one, I clung to hope as if it were a fragile thread that refused to break. Believing that somehow, someway, you would return to fill the iron upholstered empty dining chair across from me with your bare feet resting atop the chair, gazing at the sunset that has painted the sky in strokes of calcium fire and sulfur gold, a beauty I hungered to share with you, once more, and like a fleeting memory, I daydream of a time when we could once again share our days amongst unmistakable laughs in what was once our blessed life behind our ivory drapes.
G. G. Pizarro was born in San Juan, Puerto Rico, and is pursuing a doctorate in Curriculum and Instruction, focusing on Teaching English as a Second Language at the University of Puerto Rico in Rio Piedras. He possesses a Master’s in Education in Teaching English as a Second Language from the same campus and a Bachelor’s in Hotel and Food Administration from the University of Puerto Rico in Carolina. He also is an educator with the Puerto Rico Department of Education. Additionally, he is an emerging author who penned the short story "Hankering to Return" for the PR TESOL Gram, Vol. 54, June 2024.
This piece feels like stepping into a dream where love and loss coexist in an eternal dance. The vivid imagery, from the copper shadow to the unfinished wall, speaks volumes about the weight of memory and the longing for what’s gone. What truly moved me was how the mundane—coffee, toast, a dusty table—becomes sacred when tied to someone we cherish. It’s a reminder of how deeply love imprints itself on the smallest corners of our lives. Your writing doesn’t just evoke emotions; it immerses the reader in them, leaving a lingering ache that’s both beautiful and haunting. Truly stunning work.
May your words continue to cast such vivid shadows, illuminating the hearts of those who read them. Sincerely, Fabián Antoine.