Washing My Hair, Doing the Laundry, Late Night TV, I Still Want You

I stood in the shower tonight, washing my hair slowly, feeling the warmth of the water run down my back. It was supposed to be a moment to unwind, a ritual of self-care that usually helps me feel a little more human. But tonight, as the soap lathered between my fingers, all I could think of was you. I wonder if you’re doing okay, wonder if the weight of your world is just as heavy as mine. I close my eyes, hoping the water will wash away the memories, but they linger like they always do.

After, I toss the laundry into the machine, the soft hum filling the quiet space around me. It’s funny how mundane tasks can become so loud when you’re alone with your thoughts. I fold each piece of fabric like I’m trying to fold the ache away, to press it flat and make it disappear. But even as the machine spins and the clothes get clean, there’s a part of me that feels unfinished, like there’s something left unsaid between us, like something still needs to be mended.

Now, it’s late. The house is still except for the TV that flickers in the corner of the room. I’m barely paying attention to the show — it’s just background noise at this point, filling the silence that’s too much to bear. I stare blankly a the screen, but all I see is your face. It’s the way the light hits the actor’s eyes, in the way the dialogue plays out like a conversation we never had but should have. I press my palm against the cushion next to me, and for a second, I imagine it’s your hand, imagine that we’re sitting here together, like we used to. Like everything is okay.

But it’s not. You’re not here.

I could wash my hair a hundred times, fold the laundry neatly, watch every late-night show there is, but none of it changes the fact that I still want you. And I hate that I do. I wish I could want something else — want something that’s good for me, something that fills the empty spaces instead of widening them. But no matter how hard I try to push it down, you’re always there, just beneath the surface, reminding me of all the things we were, all the things we couldn’t be.

So I sit here, with clean hair and fresh clothes, but I’m still tangled in the mess of us. The TV plays on, but the real story is happening in my head.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.

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