Thanks JZ, CN, and TA for the editorial notes and feedback
4:47 AM. The first light was an imperceptible, cold whisper over the ridge. In the valley, a coyote howled—to the gods, or to the void? He sat in the dark room, a canopy of emotions swirling around him like an unseen audience. Trapped in darkness, he watched shadows dance like forgotten marionettes. The ridges silhouetted against the pale sky, shifting in the uncertain light as night yielded to dawn.
Dawn broke over the Topanga hills with a pinkish glow, as though the sun itself hesitated. The last of the night clouds clung to the ridge line in ragged strips, pale shadows refusing to yield. The mountains looked half-formed, exhaling faint plumes of fog that caught the earliest hint of rose-gold. If one squinted, one could imagine them breathing, as though the canyons and chaparral were alive with the same uncertainty churning inside him.
The morning’s hue hung dry, a hesitant forewarning of what was to come. A silent tension permeated the air, a hush resonating with the fibers of each leaf. The filtered light through the cedar walls stirred an unspoken sadness he thought had been laid to rest. In the stillness, he gazed at the timbered ceiling, listening to the faded song of birds, yet hearing only the echo of his own mind. The letter, now adrift in the digital void, had taken with it a confession that could never be reclaimed, leaving behind a hollow silence that mirrored the irreversibility of time itself.
Standing at the window, he couldn’t discern if the morning’s melancholy was originated in the landscape or in his chest. The pastel light trickled over the horizon, a quiet echo of his unresolved sorrow. He’d spent the night awake, staring at the blinking cursor. He’d meant to write an appreciation letter to her, a warm recounting of shared moments. But the words evaded him, and his heart, true to its nature, metamorphosed into the feelings he’d long suppressed. Within the networked passage of his consciousness, there emerged repeatedly a series of enigmatic images—a gentle smile, whispered conversations that never found their voice, acts of kindness—that resist any coherent interpretation. It was as if his mind, in its inscrutable way, was endeavoring to align these fragmented visions with the contours of his own expectations, as though they were the shadowy outlines of a reality he could never fully grasp.
The house smelled of stale coffee, drifting through the wide living room. He shuffled towards a small reading nook by the corner where the light has just started to percolate through. Yesterday’s newspaper lay folded, half unread. He founded a peculiar comfort within the boundary of the walls, scanning the headlines he’d ignored: local politics, a possible wildfire risk. The light, in its quiet persistence, offered a semblance of warmth, a shadow of her presence that he clung to, even as the coldness of solitude crept in around the edges. A question floated among many: How many sunsets could we shared on this deck?
In the quiet morning, he made some new coffee. He thought of Kafka’s letter to Milena 1, how words can evaporate into nothingness, consumed by the shadows they cast. He wondered if his own messages had met the same fate, intercepted by unseen hands, each sip draining away the intent until only a faint echo remained.
The mountains stood witnesses, their massive forms unchanged by the passage of time or the undertone of the morning light. They held no answers, only the stubborn presence of stone and air, a reminder of the enduring mystery that surrounded him. He poured the fresh coffee, the aroma filling the small space, a temporary warmth against the chill of the room. The door creaked slightly, left ajar to the unknown.
[In the pale light of dawn, the phone emitted a muzzy ping, like a distant echo in a vast, empty hall]
Three bubbles appeared and disappeared, pulsating with the rhythm of a heart that had long ceased to beat. He watched them, as if they held the key to a labyrinth he could never escape.
I've been thinking about everything you wrote. I want you to know I care for you so much, and I never want you to doubt that. But I don't think I can give you what you're asking for...
Each word was a stone dropped into the deep well of his chest, reverberating with the cold certainty of fate. His heart, once aflutter with the possibility of hope, now lay still, entombed in the icy chambers of reality. She cared, yes, but caring and wanting were two distant stars in the vast cosmos of human emotion. The ache in his chest was a reminder of the bruise time had left, a wound that festered in the shadows.
The room, once a sanctuary, now felt oppressive, suffocated by the warmth of morning light that seemed to mock his despair. The mountains outside, indifferent sentinels of human folly, stood as immutable as the laws of a cruel bureaucracy. They had witnessed countless such moments, where hearts learned and relearned the futility of gravity, where some things fell no matter how carefully one tried to hold them. He sat there, phone in hand, as the third text arrived:
I wonder if my presence in your life would hinder your ability to make space for viable romantic connections. I care too much about you to let that happen
The paradox was a riddle posed by a world that thrived on contradictions. His confusion reached a crescendo, a symphony of absurdity in which logic was but a distant spectator. How could one care so deeply and yet declare they couldn’t be together? The answer lay in the absurdity nature of existence, where meaning was a fleeting shadow, always just out of reach.
He then realised: How can one expect reciprocation when one couldn’t even stand the being of oneself?
The mountains still showed no sympathy. They had witnessed countless such moments, he supposed – all these human hearts learning and relearning the same lessons about gravity. About how some things fall no matter how carefully you try to hold them.
The phone buzzed once more, offering a lifeline or a noose:
Coffee next week?
And there it was – the careful return to normal, the gentle repositioning of boundaries. She was good at this, he noticed. Too good. She had probably done it before, had probably been on both sides of this conversation enough times to navigate it with expertise.
He looked out at the mountains, their peaks sharp and cruel in the afternoon light. Everything was defined now, as if the world had finally decided to reveal its true, unforgiving nature. He typed back, “Coffee sounds good,” and meant it, with a smile he usually had. Because what was the alternative? To surrender to the nothingness, to let absence consume what little remained?
The hummingbird, a messenger of a world he no longer understood, hovered at the window. He watched it disappear, carrying with it the last vestiges of hope, into the remaining light.
[Life moved on, and he thought to himself: “We will be okay.”]
“The love we have for someone will one day dissolve into the air, and we will no longer get to hold it, yet it’s still the same air we breathe. I passed by some who wept, knowing they no longer hold the same feelings for this one person or how it’s possible that our existence may no longer be as important as it is now. For that, I have to accept, and you do too. Because I think at some points in life, there will always be a moment when we yearn for this kind of love to arrive because it will be the one that gives comfort. Yet, in the next period of life, sometimes two people or even more can no longer provide that kind of love, so I guess we will just meet another person with a different kind of love, and perhaps it’s what we truly need at that time. I just hope that no matter what the future holds for us, you will remember how your existence will always leave a mark on me. It will be remembered that you were once here, giving light to my life. But one day when it happens, please do it gently so it won’t break me” 2
