The next morning, I awoke to the sound of rain pattering against the window—a fitting backdrop, given the storm of emotions swirling within me. As I shook off the remnants of sleep, I was reminded that tomorrow would mark my first day at a new job. New York City is relentless; paying for two apartments and covering an endless stream of bills requires more than just grit.
"Why do I put myself through this?"
The question echoed in my mind as I prepared for the day. Each time it surfaced, the answer was clear: because my life, my story, is here in New York, far from a home that never felt like one to begin with.
I rummaged through my closet, settling on a pair of snug black jeans, a simple white shirt, and my trusty leather jacket—black and white, the colors that define me. I thought back to a time when I wore black and yellow socks to school, a choice met with puzzled looks from everyone but James. He'd said he liked them, despite his own penchant for monochrome design. His contradictions remain a perplexing riddle I've never quite solved.
Though he may be a missing piece in my life, I've come to realize that life, with its blend of cruelty and tenderness, has its own ideas about which pieces fit together.
Walking into the kitchen, I found a steaming cup of coffee waiting for me.
"I made you coffee," Dave said, his voice a subdued acknowledgment of the tension still hanging between us.
"Thanks, but I was thinking of going out," I responded, my words laden with emotional subtext that neither of us wanted to address.
He simply nodded, and I took that as my cue to leave. I slipped through the kitchen and gently closed the door behind me. The rain was falling hard, but I resisted the urge to hail a taxi.
Sometimes you need to feel the rain on your skin to remind yourself that you can weather life's storms.
My boots splashed through puddles as I made my way to a local café.
With tomorrow marking my first day at a new job, I sought a quiet sanctuary to collect my thoughts and work on an article for New Fashion, a San Francisco-based magazine.
The café, a snug enclave filled with the aroma of roasted coffee beans and fresh pastries, seemed like the perfect spot.
Settling into a corner seat, I ordered a latte and opened my laptop, ready to channel my thoughts onto the screen. Just then, a shrill and unmistakable voice broke the silence.
"OMG, Stephanie, is that you?"
I looked up to find Ashley, the high school Queen Bee who had made more than one appearance in my diary, and not in the most flattering light.
"Yeah, it's me, Ashley," I replied, forcing a smile. "Nice to see you."
Ignoring my lackluster enthusiasm, Ashley took a seat next to me.
"Haven't you heard? My fiancé Gabriel is opening a restaurant on 5th Avenue."
"That's great," I said, my voice failing to mask my disinterest. "Congratulations."
Her eyes twinkled, "You do know he's Gabriel Jones, right? As in, James's younger brother?"
Suddenly, she had my full attention. "Gabriel Jones?"
"Exactly," she beamed. "You should come. The grand opening is this Wednesday at 8 p.m."
Against my better judgment, I found myself agreeing. "I'll be there."
Ashley left as abruptly as she had arrived, leaving me with my thoughts and a new set of questions.
I quickly pulled up an incognito tab and typed 'Gabriel Jones' into the search bar. Pictures of a youthful billionaire filled the screen. Though his hair was a shade darker, those blue eyes were undeniably reminiscent of James's. My fingers froze over the keyboard, momentarily paralyzed. A stray tear slipped from my eye, blurring my vision.
"James, I miss you so much," I whispered.
The desire to write, to escape into another world through words, had evaporated, replaced by an ache that felt both familiar and freshly piercing. I texted "S.O.S." to Dave and Emma.
They arrived at the café in less than fifteen minutes. The moment they walked through the door, I felt a hint of relief, as if their mere presence could soothe my emotional wounds.
"What happened?" Emma's eyes were filled with concern.
Dave didn't need to ask. He joined Emma in embracing me, whispering, "It's okay," as another tear escaped.
"Can someone please fill me in?" Emma was clearly perturbed by the unexplained emotional scene.
Finding words elusive, I simply opened my purse, pulled out my diary, and handed it to her.
"I can't," I choked out.
Emma looked at me questioningly but respected my reticence.
"May I?" she gestured toward the journal.
I nodded.
As Emma began to read, Dave pulled me close, allowing me to rest my head against his chest.
"You'll be okay," he assured me, gesturing to Emma to turn to a specific page.
"September 21st."
Emma flipped to the page, her eyes scanning the words I'd written. I watched her expression change from curiosity to realization, and before I knew it, her eyes shimmered with tears of her own. She covered her lips, suppressing a sob.
"Steph," she finally said, settling next to us on the plush café sofa. She wrapped me in a warm, comforting hug.
"I had no idea."
21/09/2013
Dear Diary,
Today, I stayed close to James, offering him all the warmth and love within my grasp. The news last night was shattering: his father was killed in Afghanistan. The soldier at heart is now a soldier in spirit. His mother and his younger brother, Gabriel, who is the spitting image of James at fourteen, arrived. Their presence was both a comfort and a pang in the heart.
We supported each other through the funeral. I witnessed James cry for the first time today—cry with such force that his body quaked as he struggled to compose himself. It tore me apart. This is the man who has been my rock, and standing here next to him, I've never felt so helpless.
The funeral felt like a dream. The flag-draped coffin stood before us while a salute of gunfire pierced the sky. James clutched my hand with a fervor that let his pain flow into me. His sunglasses served to shield his eyes, not from the sun, but from the tempest within.
After the ceremony, he mounted his motorcycle. He avoids riding in the rain, yet today, the need to flee was evident. My heart beat so violently it ached. It seemed desperate to break free and reach out to him.
'Don't go,' I pleaded, locking eyes with him.
But my plea fell on deaf ears as he gave me a kiss that carried the weight of eternity, a greeting, and a goodbye, all at once. Then he was gone, speeding away into the rain, leaving me rooted to the spot, my soul crying out for his return.
'James!' I screamed, dread knotting my stomach in ways I couldn't articulate. Gabriel was by my side then, his expression mirroring my unvoiced fears.
'He'll be back, Steph,' he assured me gently.
I sank to the curb, my body giving way under the heaviness, unable to shoulder the dark premonitions. His grandmother gently coaxed me away, her voice a soft murmur.
Hours later, I found myself still peering out my window, hoping. But instead of James's return, two officers approached their door. My world ground to a halt. My mother tried to restrain me, but I broke free for the first time, racing towards his house, heedless of the pavement or the pouring rain. When his mother saw me, our eyes met for a fraction of a moment before hers dropped away.
'NO!' The cry that escaped me was one of raw, unfiltered agony. His grandmother's arms were around me, but they couldn't contain the pain. It was an all-consuming hell, an onslaught of stabbing and stinging without end.
James was gone. Denied even a final glance, they took him from me. They robbed me of the chance to say farewell to the man who was my everything.
My sanctuary. My hope. And now, my grief.
His heart, they said, would beat on in a boy in New York. But who? I wonder if that boy can sense the immensity of love that once pulsed through it.
This is my final entry, Diary. To continue when James is merely a memory feels like an unspeakable torment. His death has left a void where life used to be.
Forever changed,
Stephanie
This Wednesday will mark the ninth anniversary of James's death, and in turn, the ninth year of the person I've become—the Stephanie that James always hoped I would be. When I saw Gabriel's picture, it was like seeing James all over again. The resemblance was uncanny, a reflection of a love and a life that were cruelly and prematurely ripped away from me. It was a sharp, visceral pain that coursed through me, laying bare vulnerabilities I thought I had securely shielded behind walls of independence and resilience.
Dave broke the heavy silence.
"I remember James's funeral. The whole high school seemed to be there."
"Everyone but me," I said, choking on the words.
"My mother gave me so many sedatives that day that I slept right through it. I woke up the next day with a sense of loss that was compounded by the guilt of not being there to say my final goodbye. I've never been able to forgive her for that."
"Steph," Emma sobbed, finally finding her voice, "I'm so, so sorry."
"Me too," Dave added softly, his eyes meeting mine with a sincerity that I'd only seen a few times before. "I never properly said, 'I'm sorry for your loss.' It's years late, but it's the sentiment that counts, right?"
Tears cascaded down my cheeks, as if finally given permission to flow freely.
"He was my first love, you know," I managed to say through the lump in my throat.
It's true what they say about your first love, that it never leaves you. It becomes a part of you, sewn into the fabric of your being with an indelible stitch.
Emma squeezed my hand tighter.
"First loves carve out a space in your heart that can never be filled by anyone else."
Dave looked at me, searching my eyes for some sign of acceptance.
"You will find someone else, Steph, someone who has the same kind of essence that James did. It won't be him, but it could be wonderful in its own right."
I sighed, pulling my gaze away from him.
"That's why I don't date, Dave. The idea of giving another person a part of me—only to face the risk of loss again—it terrifies me."
Dave's expression softened.
"Steph, you're strong. Your heart has weathered storms most people can't even imagine, and it's still standing. Don't you think James would want you to move on? To find happiness again?"
There was a pause, heavy with years of unspoken emotions, years of 'what could have been' and 'what if.' Finally, I nodded. "I guess you're right."
We sat in a silence that was almost palpable, each lost in our own reverie. The café buzzed around us—the clinking of cups, the chatter of patrons, the hissing of the espresso machine—but in our little bubble, it was as if time stood still.
We didn't need words.
Sometimes silence speaks more loudly than any combination of syllables could. Sometimes silence is its own language of understanding, its own form of solace.
We needed that silence.
We needed that moment of collective introspection.
It was a tribute to the past and a nod to the future; a momentary cease-fire in the continuous battle between what was and what could be.