300 Writing Prompts; Take 1

What is your favorite way to spend a lazy day?

Dear Ex Lover,

When the evening sun slants in through the tree outside my kitchen window in that special way it usually reserves for Hollywood cameras; When sad songs full of longing dominate the radio; When there's no nook or cranny left to scour in my tiny home; When my day has not been stressful enough to provide distraction -- It's days like this that I can't help but think of you.

On most of these noiseless evenings, I arm myself with soft sweat pants, a t-shirt worn thin and smooth, and a book that will speak loudly enough to drown out the memory of your voice. It never works. Your words press into the walls I've thrown up around my new life. They threaten to crush all the progress I've made these past two years. "There she is!" you say, after we've been apart so long.  "I promise," you say, as I drift to sleep.  "I need you here," you say, when you ask me to elope.  "I married a smart, independent woman," you say, "and now look at you." "I can't do this anymore," you say, as my resolve crumbles. Round and round and round your words go, until I can't run from them anymore. Until I find myself here.

"A perfect lazy day at home," my Facebook status will read. I am too ashamed to let anyone know that even now I ache for what we were before - young and brave and sure of heart. I mourn the fairy tale we pretended we could be.


I don't want to wonder how we came to this place. But I do. I wonder endlessly.

Picture it like this:

The answer to what went wrong with our love is at the center of a maze of dark hallways. The wallpaper peels slowly before my eyes, and dust clings to the baseboards. A dim, source-less light illuminates my way, and I turn left - right - right - left again, on and on for hours, until finally, I reach the center: a dead end.

I am not surprised.  How could I be? I've been here a thousand times before.

Heavy drapes cover the end of my path. My stomach is heavy with dread, and I clench my hands to stop them shaking. I don't want to see what's behind this curtain, but how can I not? I've been walking so long, and this is what I came for. I step forward, tentatively try to peel the drapes away. They prove stubborn, but not as stubborn as me. I pull hard, harder, and harder still until I'm yanking the fabric with all my might. They give way unexpectedly, and I fall to the floor buried in the endless folds of velvet.

I stand, and what I find takes my breath, even on this hundredth journey.

Before me is a girl - both familiar and foreign. She is my height, exactly, but pudgier than me. Her face is round and pale, and her dark eyes hollow. Her hair is long and shapeless. It spills over her shoulders like an ugly veil. I lift my right hand in greeting, and her left rises to meet it.  I step forward, and she does the same. I stop suddenly, as I recognize her at last. Tears begin to roll down my cheeks silently, and then loud, gasping sobs rip from my chest. She tips her head to the side and laughs mercilessly. It's shrill, manic laughter. I sink to my knees and weep as my reflection mocks me, because we both know the same truth: The thing that went wrong was me. We both feel it in our very core - I killed our love when I became someone undeserving of it.

Oh, my love, you told me so yourself at the end. It just took me a long time to believe it.

Not every day aches so much, of course. I'm an old pro at heartache by now. I know better than to spend days idle and alone.

When I need to crawl out of my despair I'll text an old friend.

"I need you to tell me I'm being stupid again," I'll tell her.

"Even after all this time?" She'll ask, sounding very much like Albus Dumbledore.

"Always," I'll reply, sounding every bit the tragic villain.  And then she'll lower a ladder into my  maze, and help me climb back into my new life. She'll tell me I'm strong, and brave, and smart. She'll tell me she's proud of everything I've accomplished. She'll remind me that you don't have the right to rob me of my confidence; that you've proven you were never worthy of my devotion in the first place.

My dear, dear, ex-lover...some lazy days I think you ruined me. But mostly I'm too busy becoming the person I should have been, before you pulled me off track. Most of the time, I'm much too busy to remember how helpless I'd be if ever you looked my way again. Most of the time, I thank God you never will.