Storm clouds gather, pushing the bleak sky to the ground. The loneliness clings to my skin, like humidity in the tropics, cloying its way through arm hair and sticking to my pores. I wrap it tighter around me like a heavy dark blanket; I feel sad but safe in its embrace.
I've always been sarcastic. It was just a small step, a small attitude adjustment towards cynicism and skepticism. My new-found misanthropy hardens the dark shroud of loneliness that envelopes me, making my loneliness impenetrable. Walk-through well-wishers who don't know my situation but "heard from a friend of a friend that things were going poorly" only annoy me and further darken my mood.
I think back to what led me here, why I am reticent to leave the confines of my room. She told me I was going to die alone. She hadn't used those exact words, of course. Her tenor was much more comforting; in her eyes, it was her final favor to me, though to me it was but a lingering lie. She spoke the words, but she did not feel them. She did not want to be friends nor could she truly believe that I am wonderful. If she felt so strongly, she couldn't throw it away for....what? Nothing. She chose nothing over me.
The only truth that fell from her lips that day was her desire to be free, free from dinner dates and activities, from ice cream cones and miniature golf.
No, that's not true.
She still will go out.
Just not with me.
She just wanted to be free from me.
So I will stay here, wrapped in my metaphorical and literal blankets. I'm not just mourning my loss. I'm mourning us.
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