Sophia

It's five am. I'm not sure whether I've risen early or stayed up late: last night is a blur. I think I drank a little too much red wine and I know I took a little too much ibuprofen to kill the migraine. I don't know why I bother; I've had the migraine for months now and nothing can get rid of it.

The sky is a weird shade of black; there are no stars, the moon set about three hours ago, yet it doesn't quite feel dark. The world is so still, it's as though I can feel the sun as it creeps toward my horizon.

I climb into the windowseat in my living room (my favourite thing in my whole apartment) and hug my knees to my chest because I'm cold, despite my oversized sweatshirt....His sweatshirt.

As I lay my head against the icy pane and stare up at the blank sky, I think that, somewhere, he is underneath the very same canvas. It's three am where he is: he's probably just now going to bed. I wonder if, maybe, he takes a moment in his nocturnal preparations to glance out his own window and remember me.

It rained all night. Heavy, pouring, blinding rain that I watched for hours and hours, feeling as though the heavens were weeping for me when I was too drunk to do so for myself. It stopped an hour ago, so I opened my window to let the sweet air in. I've covered my balcony with plants and I have a windowbox sitting on every sill, so, despite my metropolitan abode, I can still smell the soft fragrance of new-washed earth.

I shake my head at myself for thinking that it almost smells like him. I suppose, in a way it does. It rained almost every day when he was here and on the sunny days (the days when we ventured out of doors) the world smelled like this: clean and new.

When I finally turn away from the window, I see "Herodotus" waiting for me on the coffee table. I stand, walk over to the table, and pick it up. When I open the cover and turn through the leaves, I see the creases from the dog ears he made to mark his place, the passages he underlined, the notes he scribbled in the blank spaces of paper. I love his handwriting...I can almost hear his voice when I see it.

Two months ago, I would never have dreamt I could be like this. Two months ago, I didn't stay up all hours into the night. Two months ago, I didn't read "Herodotus". Two months ago, I never considered myself as a human being, with a heart and soul that could feel, and want, and need...And love.

My sister's picture is hanging on my wall. She just got a new boyfriend. She's always been so carefree and untameable. This is boyfriend number...I lost track. She never seems phased when it ends; it's like a changing of the seasons to her. I wonder how it is that she can be so unaffected by so many affairs and endings and I'm practically a ghost over only one.

Has she ever really loved a man? Has she ever felt that sweet ache in the pit of her breast? Has she ever lost her breath when the breeze carries the faintest scent of him?

The truth is, there are somethings we just need, things we can't go without, the things we couldn't possibly have been intended to live without because the risk is too great. I can't go without him.