Presence and Absence

Blythe Plier

27/03/2024

Image description: A red arm chair alone in a grey scale room, with a bay seat looking out through a rain stained window.

Someone you love does not love you back, so what do you do?

You sit and you cry in your armchair by the window and watch the rain rush down the windowpane. Looking outside, you wish you had a balcony, an island to escape. Tall buildings dominate the horizon, a big city, and yet you still feel alone. Why does loneliness feel so big? A shiver races up your spine and the goosebumps on your arms bring your awareness to the evening’s dwindling temperature.

Once, you would nestle in your comfy armchair with a book and he would bring you tea and lean down to place kisses on your forehead. Those electric kisses once brought goosebumps to your arms. No words were spoken but love was there. You felt his love like you feel the goosebumps on your arms, like the damp imprints you feel drenching your cheeks. Where did it go? You sit and you wait, even though you hate to wait on people.

Love once warmed your apartment, but now you’re drowning in cold silence. Little pockets of warm memories echo around the room; laughter over burnt toast in the now neglected kitchen, slow dances by the vintage stereo in the dark lounge, and late-night cuddles in the empty bedroom. Forsaken memories, taken for granted. You could turn the heater on, to feel an artificial warmth on this bleak day, but you don’t deserve it. You want to be numb so the love that left can’t overwhelm you again.

You glance towards the apartment door. You fixate on that door which leads to the stairs, that go down to the front entrance, where he walked out. He packed up his warmth and his memories and snuck out over the threshold without a why. Without goodbye. Was there another woman? Another man? His family hated you? He hated you? He wanted to move away and start a new life? Wanted a family with someone else?Wanted anyone but you. All these questions but never an answer. Nothing given but everything taken.

You call your mum and you both cry. She reminds you of all her failed relationships. ‘Men take what they want and give nothing in return.’ But they are the ones who close the doors.

‘They take all you have.’ All you give.

‘All you feel.’ All you want!

‘They are not good.’ Not worth it!

‘And they can get away with it.’ With no care for what they no longer want!

But they are worth it. Love is worth it; you know this in your heart. Your poor, broken, stomped-on heart. You hang up and resume crying again in your comfy armchair. The armchair is the colour of love. The love you need for now. The deep sanguine hue will hold you, wrap you, and keep you warm. Won’t it?

Your tears dry up and the stinging cold in your fingertips becomes unbearable. You move to turn the heater on, the kettle on, the lights on, finding any artificial warmth that will keep you moving. It’s easy to get stuck: stuck waiting, stuck thinking, stuck spiralling. You deserve better. You deserve love. You can love yourself, or at least pretend, pretend for now you are fine. No one else needs to know you are not fine. The grey skies linger, hiding the sun and drenching the big city and its tall buildings.

Love might come back.

Or new love might find you.

You will have your balcony one day. You will stand on your floating island and watch the sun gleam over a new street filled with golden wattles and honeyeaters. Warm pockets of sunshine will glow on your skin. You will feel a deep, calming warmth. New love will walk by, pushing a green bike covered with pannier bags. He will have brown hair and tan skin, and he will gaze up at you on your island every other day as he walks by. Why is he walking and not riding? Is his bike heavy? Unbalanced? Is he a messenger? A good man? A loving man? Has a kind sister and a caring mother? Will they accept you with open arms? Are you ready for those arms? So many questions, answered in time, as the sun radiates for new love.

You will meet him one day. You will hear a ring on your buzzer, and you will rush down the new stairs to the new front entrance where new love will walk in. Love will answer at the door as the brown-haired, tan-skinned man. He will hand you a parcel, and he will deliver his love to you. A frozen moment. A familiar warmth sparks inside you. No words spoken but smiles shared and fingers touched as the parcel is handed over, and a new electricity will send goosebumps up your arms.

‘The balcony girl,’ he calls you. He watches you watching him. You will blush the colour of love. An intense blush that reaches over your forgotten and untouched form. You ask why he never rides his bike, and he says it is safer to walk along the street. It is bustling here. He doesn’t want to crash into anyone. Is he lying? Does he walk so he can watch you for longer as he passes? Will he kiss your forehead? Caress your curves? Will love warm your apartment again?

But for now you sit in your comfy armchair and watch the rain race down the windowpane. Racing to the bottom, pooling, and overflowing. Is that what love is? A never-ending race? Something in abundance built up so quickly but gone in a flood like the raindrops down that window pain?

The evening temperature settles in your chest and tightens it. You restrict your tears. The man you love does not love you back, and this you will learn through questions and daydreams, stairs and chairs, windows and goosebumps.

You step up and away from the window and pour a cup of tea. You don’t need to look at that lonely city anymore. You close your eyes to fight away the memory pockets, and dream instead of the brown-haired and tan-skinned delivery man walking with his bike.

Love will call again; you know this in your heart. Love will come like a parcel to your door in the hands of that delivery man. Fingers will touch and electricity will spark.

Blythe is a regional Victorian writer and current student at Federation University studying a Bachelor of Arts. Her preferred written genre is realistic fiction, with a love for reading romance and fantasy novels. ‘Presence and Absence’ is Blythe’s first published story and she is proud to share it with us. When not studying and reading, Blythe can be found baking, spinning, dabbling in visual arts, and spending time with her family.