Page 16

Mathéo

I am empty. When I used to hear that phrase, I always thought, “Phew, that’s dramatic”. You always feel something, I thought. I’ve never been so wrong in my life.

After everything went down, there was at least this incredible pain, but now there is nothing. Not even hunger or thirst anymore. I’m no longer tired either. I fall asleep because at some point my body just pulls the plug. Sometimes even at work, in front of the computer.

I go to the office every day. It distracts me and gives my life the structure I need to avoid falling into complete neglect. But nothing more. Where my heart used to be is now a gaping void. Sometimes I look at my phone because subconsciously I hope to have a message from Micki, just like before. I miss her... him... her... him... shit.

That’s the thought that fucks me off the most. Whenever I think of Micki, I think of her as a woman. Micki isn’t a woman, he’s a man. A man, a man, a man. But somehow I can’t get this information into my head. My head refuses to accept that I can’t have him, that I don’t want him. Because he’s a man. It vehemently refuses to accept this new reality and keeps sending images into my mind.

Micki, when... he... lies on his stomach and his chin rests on his right hand. His head slightly askew, his curls wild and untamed, just like... him. Fire in his dark eyes and a challenging grin on his lips.

Micki sitting cross-legged... his... phone in his hand waiting for a new question. Gently... he... brushes his hair out of his face with... his... long fingers. My hair would be the same if I let it grow. Which I don’t, because my father strictly forbids it.

Micki’s eyes, tired from a long exhausting day at work, but still with a gentle smile for me.

He. She. She. He. He. She. He. I'm running around in circles. Is it really that important? Does it really matter at all? Does it really matter if Micki is a man or a woman? I’ve never felt closer to another person than Micki in my entire life. No one has ever understood me the way... he does. No one has ever taken me as I am. Micki was not deterred. What if I never meet another human like him? What if I tried to cut the one person out of my life who would actually have been mine?

For the first time in my life, I didn’t feel alone because I had Micki. And even though we only ever saw each other via video call, he was there every night, for me. He wasn’t put off by my sometimes unapproachable nature.

I drop my head onto my desk. It’s far too late and I’m still at the office, but I just can’t stand it at home, where I wait for my phone to ring or for my laptop to make the typical bubbling sound.

My phone rings for real, but it’s not the person I so terribly miss. It’s Danielle again. I’ve lost count, but at a rough guess, she must have called me thirty times in the last six weeks, and I still don’t understand why. First of all, it was always clear that I’d contact her when I wanted to see her, not the other way around. And second, I ended things between us. I know, that screams asshole big time, but Danielle knows it’s over, that I don’t want a relationship.

“At least not with her...” My brain throws this thought into my consciousness, and I let my head thump painfully on the desk top once again.

***

What the hell am I doing here? How low can you actually sink? After spending half the night looking up Micki online, I’m now sitting in the parking lot in front of her work at half past six in the morning. His work. Fuck! A little voice in the back of my head whispers that I’ve hit rock bottom, and I hang my head.

What is Micki doing to me? Him, her - I don’t give a shit at the moment. I miss Micki. I don’t know exactly what time he starts, only that he gets up at six. According to Google, the practice opens at 7:30am, but maybe he’ll be here earlier. To be on the safe side, I left Dijon at 2:30am.

French highways are empty during the day, but at night it’s completely dead. That’s why I’ve been standing here for an hour now. It’s freezing cold and I’m completely exhausted because I didn’t sleep at all last night. I’m annoyed with myself for pulling such a stupid stunt, but I have to see him. Just one more time. Maybe then I can get him out of my head.

I need closure. At least that’s what I’m trying to convince myself of, although the intelligent part of my brain—and yes, it still exists, albeit only very weakly—is clearly telling me that it’s not going work that way. I can’t find closure with Micki.

Half an hour later, the first car pulls into the parking lot, the second one after me, but a young woman gets out.

Four cars later, my heart starts pounding and my hands get terribly sweaty from one second to the next. I recognize Micki’s curls while he’s still in the car, and after he exits, I know for sure. He’s here, not even sixty yards away from me. All I have to do is get out of the car and walk over to him. Take him in my arms, hold him tight and never let go again. But regardless of the fact that I don’t know if he even wants that, I’d never do it. I can’t do it. Not with a man.

I feel tears welling up and I want to press the heels of my hands into my eyes, but I don’t for fear of missing even one of the few precious seconds in which I can see Micki. Standing in front of his car, he slips a hair tie off his wrist and ties his curls back. Together with his white trackpants, sneakers and anorak, he looks so masculine. For the first time in all these months, I’m able to see Micki as the man he is. He reaches over to the passenger side, pulls out his backpack and casually throws it over one shoulder.

He walks briskly to the main entrance. So elegant and so dynamic and yet so delicate. His slender body is bursting with body tension. I want to reach out and touch him. Loosen the hair tie, run my hands through his curls and... FUCK! Where did that thought come from? I can’t do this. I can’t, damn it.