Page 55 of A Wistful Symphony

A deep breath leaves your lungs, and you finally speak.

“I’m sorry you went through all that. Truly.

But I didn’t make you do shit. That was all on you.

” The muscles in your jaw tighten. “You always spiral when you have no control over things. You need to know every little thing and be prepared for every single outcome. And when you’re not, you do shit like going through your sister’s phone, hurting yourself on the piano, or thinking I’m going to have an OD when I promised you I’d never touch drugs again. ”

I snort, and it almost comes out as a bitter laugh.

I can barely believe my good ear. “Are you seriously trying to turn this on me? You’re the one who fucked up, Andrew.

One text.” I raise a finger between us. “One text is all it would take for you to put me out of my misery, and you didn’t even grant me that. ”

“You’re right. I fucked up. I should’ve let you know I was going to take longer to come home, and I apologise for that.

But you can’t blame me for the rest. Not going to Somerset was your choice.

Flooding my phone with texts and not concentrating on work was your choice.

And being fired from the BBC job was a consequence of your actions. ”

You inhale, letting the breath out slowly.

“I spent years thinking it was my fault you missed your spot at the Royal Academy. That I ruined your life that day. But just like today, that was your call. It was a choice that kept me alive, yes, and I’ll always have a debt to you for that, but you can’t hold me hostage to your actions forever.

” You grasp my shoulders with both hands.

“I’m not responsible for how you react, Eric. ”

I clench my teeth and shake my head. “I should have known,” I say at last. “I should’ve known from the beginning you’d fuck up my life again.

Everyone warned me.” A curtain of tears blurs my sight.

“But that’s who I am, isn’t it? Silly, romantic, stupid Eric, who thought he would have a second chance with the love of his life.

” My voice comes out strangled. “You come in like a hurricane, sweep me off my feet and leave a wreck in your wake. And you say it’s my fault? Fuck you , Andrew.”

Your expression twists in sorrow, like I’d grasped your heart and turned it to dust. Tears fall from your eyes as your parted lips quiver, looking for an answer. I curse myself for causing you such pain, but I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Ten years of hurt came out in a single day. We sure had it coming.

“Would one text have prevented everything that happened to you?” You inhale shakily, so your voice won’t crack. “Answer me honestly, Eric.”

I take a long time to respond.

“No,” I whisper. “I’d still be worried sick and probably would’ve done the same thing.”

The corners of your lips curve in an anguished smile. “Thought so.”

Releasing my shoulders, you take a long breath. The silence between us is as deep as an abyss.

“Do you think some people can be a perfect match, but aren’t meant to be together?

” Your voice comes out choked. “I don’t think we’ll ever recover from ten years ago.

You’ll never trust me enough to believe I’ve recovered, and I’m too secretive about my problems to make you feel safe in this relationship. Don’t you agree?”

My lips tremble, tears streaming down my face. My body is nailed to the floor and I can’t utter a thing. It’s not a shock of disappointment. It’s because you’re actually making sense.

“I don’t want to hurt you anymore, Eric.” Your voice cracks with one tiny sob. “I think we should quit before it gets worse.”

“Perhaps you’re right.” The words come out like daggers up my throat.

I raise a hand to touch your face, to have one last caress of your skin, but you take a step back, uttering “don’t.” With a hard swallow, I recoil my hand to my aching chest as you trace heavy steps towards the door.

You leave the flat without looking back.

One would think losing you would break me. Make me despair, pull my hair out and scream to the void. That’s not what happens.

Suffering so many losses in a brief span of time means each blow numbs me to the next. Each cut hardens my skin until it’s so thick they could sever my limbs and I wouldn’t care.

Perhaps it would be better if I could just burst into tears.

I stare at the door for several minutes, hoping you’ll change your mind and come back to me.

It never opens. When reality catches up to me, I finally move.

My legs are stiff, creaking at the joints, and I wander the flat looking for something to occupy my time.

To redirect the pain into something useful. Anything.

The piano is my first choice. I open the fallboard and play some Sibelius.

Not a smart choice. The grim chords aggravate the grief in my heart, and the melody has your face written all over.

I change the piece. Rachmaninoff isn’t any better, because it reminds me of ten years ago.

I change it again. But the problem isn’t the piece, but music itself.

That’s our link. The core of our hearts. Any melody would make me think of you.

I get up and tidy the flat. There’s not much to do, and I soon find myself out of options. Perhaps a cigarette would make me feel better. I go for my blazer’s pocket and remember the pack is empty. A walk, then. I’m going to walk to the vendor down the street and buy a new one. And then, who knows?

It’s night already, and the street is quiet like a monastery.

Some bloke walks his dog on the other side of the pavement, but that’s it.

Near solitude. The chilly air fills my lungs and I can’t help but sigh.

There’s no need to be at work tomorrow. No need to be with you.

What am I going to do with my time? What am I going to do, period?

The vendor gives me a pack of cigarettes and I swipe my debit card.

As soon as I’m back on the street, I light one of them.

I don’t know why I keep buying them in packs instead of cartons.

Perhaps some subconscious part of me thinks if I buy them in smaller amounts, it’ll be easier to quit.

It doesn’t matter. On the way home, it rains.

I let it pour on my shoulders but shield the ember with both hands so the cigarette won’t go out. Strange priorities.

When I reach the front of the building, someone slips an umbrella over my head.

“What are you doing soaking wet in the rain? You’ll catch a cold like that, Eric from the music department,” Ollie says, waking me from my trance.

“Me?” I counter. “What are you doing here?”

“Didn’t I say I would pass by your place after tonight’s show?”

“Oh, yeah,” I whisper, my head in absolute disarray. “That was today.”

Ollie peers deep into my puffy face and bloodshot eyes, as if he can sense the seriousness of the situation. His hand goes to my arm, and he squeezes it fondly. “Can you tell me what happened while I make you some tea?”

“Sounds good.” I put out the stub and wipe my nose. “A bit of gin to go with it?”

He chuckles. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

Once we head up, Ollie makes his way to the kitchen, and I plummet onto the sofa, pressing my eyeballs with the heels of my hands.

Burying myself in a dark void, I hear only the distant clank of dishes.

I tell Ollie everything. My breakdown, being let go from the BBC project, you saying we would be better apart.

Ollie hands me a mug, and the strong smell of alcohol prickles my nostrils. I take a sip and grimace. “How much gin did you put in here?”

“Enough for a breakup.” He smirks and sits by my side, holding his own mug. Once he has a sip, his face grows serious. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” I take a long gulp, and a bitter chuckle snarls through my throat. “You called it, though.”

“I wish I hadn’t,” Ollie says in a solemn tone. “Did he at least explain why?”

“Yeah.” I sigh. “You know the funny thing? I actually agree with him. We’re not meant to be.

He brings out the worst in me and I end up wounded every single time.

” I breathe out a dry laugh. “Two times is enough, isn’t it?

To insist on the same mistake a third round would be plain idiotic.

I’m done. I’ve made up my mind about this, but—” My voice cracks at the end.

“Still hurts like hell,” Ollie completes with a sympathetic smile.

“You have no idea.” The phrase comes out strangled by a wave of sobs.

Ollie takes the mug out of my hands and holds me in his arms. “You’ll get over this,” he says.

“Doesn’t feel like it.” My voice is muffled against his chest.

“You did it once. You’ll pull it off again.”

Ollie’s palm forms soothing circles between my shoulder blades, and I let my sorrows drip onto his T-shirt. After I’ve calmed down, he holds me by my shoulders.

“Maybe it’s too soon to ask, but what about your job?”

“I don’t know, Ollie. I can’t even think about it. Ms Thorne gave me some time off to recover, so I don’t have to be at work for a while.”

“You know, this might be an opportunity.” He raises his eyebrows. “You could go back to your grandma’s and cool off in the countryside. Be away from this mess.”

My gaze wanders around the flat. How can I pick up my pieces when every corner of this place reminds me of you?

The kitchen where you cooked me French toast. The piano where we played together.

The sheets on my bed that have already picked up your scent.

This sofa, where we had sex for the first time after ten years.

You’re everywhere, Andrew. In my house, in my life. In my heart.

And I need to rip you out of it.

“You’re right.” I sigh. “Going back to Somerset might help me make sense of things.”

“That’s a nice way to look at it.” He smiles and bobs his head. “Go home, Eric. It’ll make you feel better.”

Home . I think about that word for a while. Does a place have the power to soothe my pain? To cradle me and make me whole again?

I guess I’ll find out.