I'm not exactly sure when I started writing this story. It's been a work in progress for several months now. I scribbled parts of it on coffee shop napkins, receipts and other pieces of paper I found in my bag. I finally had enough time to sit down and put the pieces together while maintaining the timeline and the mindset I had when I wrote it. So far, I like how it turned out. It doesn't sound like anything I wrote before- maybe because it's been a while since I seriously wrote anything. Anyway, here it is.
What does one wear when he’s about to break somebody’s heart? I pondered this question as I stepped out of the bathroom, freshly scrubbed but hardly invigorated. I didn’t know what words I could say. All I knew was this was the day that things would finally end.
Should I wear red? Should we celebrate what we had? We had a lot of good times. We certainly laughed enough, cried enough, fought enough, made up enough. The end doesn’t have to be any different. Let’s just say that we had a lot of good times and now it’s finally time to part ways.
Should I wear white? Like a silent flag raised in the middle of battle, would it get my message across? I don’t want to fight anymore. I don’t know if we even have enough left to become friends. Should I be the beacon of peace and serenity? Would that cushion the blow?
Should I wear nothing? Let you come to me. No. That wouldn’t solve anything and I just changed the sheets.
Should I wear purple? Wasn’t that your favorite color? Remember when we said we would someday rule the world? Maybe we should dress like kings and queens. No one would ever suspect that between the main course and dinner, we finally penned our story’s ending.
Should I wear black? It would go so much better with ‘it’s not you, it’s me.’ Maybe if you could see that I wasn’t right for you or that something about me just wasn’t right, you’d wise up and leave. It seems easier that way- to lay all the blame on my side of the bed.
My apprehension and indecision has got me so confused. I stood naked in front of a full closet for what felt like two years but was actually fifteen minutes. As I took out a green shirt (my favorite color), I realized I wasn’t breaking your heart. I was breaking my own. I’m going to miss you- our stupid conversations about God and politics, about suffrage and sloth. I looked in the mirror and didn’t know if I would ever be completely ready so I put on my pants, went out and hailed a cab. It was raining as the skies are wont to do when people break up. I sat antsy on the cool leather seats, expecting the best but bracing for the worst. One day, you’ll look back at all this the way a ten year old runs his hands through a healing scar. One day, you’ll forgive me.