Page 58 of A Wistful Symphony

Reflection Motet

M um welcomes me at the cottage’s front gate.

A chilly breeze gusts through the garden, and she wraps a cardigan around her body.

I wasn’t sure if taking the first train out of London was the right call, but as soon as she puts her arms around me and squeezes tight, I mentally thank Ollie for the suggestion.

I hug her back, fingers grasping her clothes, and cheek leaning on the top of her head.

She smells of freshly picked daffodils and fabric conditioner, and the familiarity of the scent soothes my aching heart.

She lets go, her smile topped by lowered eyes.

My mouth turns sour, thinking about how I might have let her down.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I mutter, glancing away. “You must be so disappointed.”

“Hush, honey.” She rubs my arm. “All that matters is you’re here.”

She takes my suitcase and rolls it across the garden path.

I smile, thinking I could name each stone on this pathway.

We stroll through the vacant sitting room with its faded brown sofa, the old hardwood piano, and the same ugly flower curtains as ever.

It’s silent, however, and the foreign sound adds to my melancholy.

“It’s weird to see this place so empty,” I say when we stop by the staircase.

“Yes.” Mum chuckles. “Every day I hope to hear your voice or the girls’ screaming through the walls.”

I release a tiny laugh, remembering how we wanted to kill each other back then. “I miss those days.”

“Me too, honey, me too,” she whispers dreamily. “Now you take your suitcase upstairs. Your mother is not as young as she used to be.”

I comply and make my way to the second floor.

After the longest bath, I confine myself in my old bedroom and lay on the bed long enough to grow roots.

Despite my mother’s calls, I miss lunch, and when she leaves a sandwich and apple juice on my desk, I tell her I’m not hungry.

The rest of the afternoon is spent like the morning, staring at the walls and feeling sorry for myself.

It’s dark outside the blinds and my forgotten phone has been buzzing for a full minute.

Vibrating on the nightstand, flashing intermittent beams on the gloomy walls.

Like the most depressing rave party ever.

I don’t need to look at the screen. The caller is likely the same as the previous times. You.

What could you possibly have to say at this point, Andrew? Haven’t we done enough? After ten years of misery crowned by the most soul-crushing break up, you’d think distance is the one thing we’d want from each other. And yet here you are, incessantly trying to reach out.

Please, stop. I’m tired. So fucking tired. And I don’t think I have anything left to give.

At last, you give up, and the phone stands still. One final buzz announces a notification. I let it marinate until curiosity gets the better of me. You left a voicemail. A single voicemail, after so many missed calls.

I roam around the room, phone twirling between my hands, deciding if I should listen to it or not. Should I leave it for a moment of better emotional stability? Or should I rip off the plaster and hear what you have to say? Leave no loose ends so I can finally purge you from my life?

With a pounding heart, I sit on the floor and lean my back against the wall.

The notification screen, the only source of light in this room, tempts my will.

I stare at it for a long time, my thumb hovering over the call button, but never finding the courage.

Finally, I press it and bring the phone to my good ear.

“Hey, Eric. I know I’m the last person you want to hear from, but I hated how we left things.

This is not me trying to get back with you, okay?

Please don’t get me wrong. I really think breaking up was the best decision.

But we were both angry and hurt, and said things we didn’t mean.

And I didn’t want that to be the last time we ever spoke.

I just wanted a chance to … I don’t know, explain myself?

Even if it’s too late for that. So here goes.

I wasn’t a good fit for you ten years ago.

I was so incredibly lost that I would’ve killed everything that’s good between us until there was nothing left.

Going away was the right call and I don’t regret it.

But then we found each other again, and I thought maybe …

maybe I had healed enough, maybe I had worked enough on myself that I could be someone who deserves you.

Who could give you the safe relationship you need.

That I could love you the right way. But then my mum fell ill, and it made me realise how far I am from being that man.

I’m broken, Eric, I’m … I’m damaged goods.

And I don’t know if I can ever be fixed.

I love you too much, Eric, too goddamn much to condemn you to be with someone like me.

I really wanted to be the one for you. I wanted it so badly, but you deserve better…

so much better and I … I just … I just can’t.

I want you to be happy, okay? Even if it isn’t with me, even if …

even if we never see each other again. So yeah, I guess that’s it.

Thank you for everything, Eric. I’ll never forget you. ”

The lump in my throat makes it hard to breathe as the salty taste of tears pools at the corners of my mouth. This would be so much easier if you hated me. But here we are, choking on the irony that two people can love each other so deeply and still not be enough.

You say you’re broken, Andrew, but I don’t believe that for a second. You’re full of cracks, yes, but underneath them is a remarkable man. One of the best people I’ve ever met. Why can’t you see it? How can you not recognise it? If only you could see yourself through my eyes.

On a whim, I dial your number.

“Eric? I’m so glad you—”

“You’re wrong,” I say, cutting you off. “You’re so fucking wrong.”

“Eric, please, don’t—”

I hang up. In a stroke of rage, the phone flies across the bedroom. My arm falls limp, and I bang my head on the wall, unable to hold back my sobs.

I toss and turn the entire night thinking of your saddened features, your striking words.

And that voicemail. I’m tempted to listen to it again more times than not, but that would put salt on the wound.

Still, I don’t have the courage to delete it.

It’s one last string tethering me to you and severing it would be more than I can handle.

I’m not ready to let go, Andrew. But I must, if I mean to survive this.

Mum brings breakfast to my room, and my stomach’s beastly growls remind me I haven’t eaten since I arrived. I spent my last shred of strength having a bath, so her thoughtfulness is welcome. Once I’m done eating, my exhausted body urges me to crawl back to bed.

Hours pass, and I remain in the same position. Mum tells me to get up and do something, but I don’t answer. Delia calls, and I let it go to voicemail. The cracked screen on my phone flashes a few times more, but I let it be. All I wish is for the world to leave me alone.

When the afternoon comes, my brain is knackered from replaying our breakup over and over.

Hoping to muffle the dreary thoughts, I take my phone and enter social media.

Nothing like a trip through funny videos to turn everything into a blur.

Amid mindless scrolling, my phone rings again.

My therapist’s name appears on the screen, and since she never calls, I decide to pick up.

“Hello, Eric. Is everything alright with you?”

“Hey Sharon. I’m fine.” I sit up on the bed, frowning. “May I ask why you’re calling?”

“You’re always early for our sessions. I was worried when you didn’t come today.”

I’ve been so absorbed in my misery that I completely forgot about our weekly appointment.

“Shit, Sharon, I’m sorry. I’m at my Mum’s.” I drag a hand down my face. “These last few days have been such a mess, and I forgot about our appointment. I’m really sorry.”

“That’s okay, no need to worry.” Her tone is calm and reassuring. “I have an opening now. Would you like to video chat and tell me what’s going on?”

I don’t respond right away. Tired as I am, I know running from my problems will only make them worse. I’ll have to discuss this eventually, so why not do it with a trained professional? Might as well get it over with already.

“Hang on, I’m going to switch to video.” I turn the phone to my face but remember to check my appearance a second too late.

Sharon’s round face appears on the screen. She sits in her office chair in a well-pressed patterned blouse, her coily hair tied back with a matching scarf. Despite not being much older than me, she greets me with a motherly smile.

“Seems like it’s been a tough week.” This is her way of saying, ‘You look like shit.’

I chuckle. “Tough doesn’t begin to cover it.”

She laughs along with me. “Then, by all means, tell me everything.”

I lay out all that’s happened with unedited details.

Complete honesty and no judgment, that’s what Sharon always says.

She uses this phrase whenever I’m hiding things or deflecting from topics I don’t want to discuss.

After years of therapy sessions, she’s always aware when I’m falling into denial and avoidance.

This is not one of those times. I’m so goddamn lost, I actually crave her insight about what happened. About what I should do next.

“I see,” she says when I end my narrative. “And has Andrew tried to contact you since your call?”

“Not yet.” I sigh. “And to be honest, I don’t think he will. That voicemail felt an awful lot like goodbye.”

“No assumptions, remember?” she censors me. “There’s no way of knowing what’s passing through his head at the moment.”

“It’s hard not to.” I lean back on the headboard and rest a hand on my forehead. “He was pretty candid this time. Unlike ten years ago.”

“And how did it make you feel? All the things Andrew said.”