Zemira

When Einstein said, 'time is an illusion,' the world stood in awe. But for me, that hypothesis wasn't surprising. Since my childhood, I had been a witness to the expansion and contraction of time, of its slowing and pacing up under various stages of life.

Happy, momentous moments slipped faster. No matter how great they were, they only had a compact existence. If only the same was true for its counterpart - despair - that held the power to make seconds feel like centuries.

I experience this non-scientific conjecture since last Tuesday. That day when our live interview passed splendidly. Then on Sunday, I met Leo's friends. Kyle and Debra, the perfect couple, immediately made me feel welcomed into their group.

Those days flew, unregistering its presence. At times it felt like those moments were only a projection of my mind.

Then came the dreadful Monday. 

Poor Monday. It already had so much hate garnered without me having to pile on. That day when I let a predator harm me. When instead of fighting back, I succumbed. That Monday and that memory dragged on for what felt like centuries.

It was like being in a hospital bed in a state of coma where everyone assumed you were unaware of the surroundings. But you'd be awake from the inside, hearing and feeling everything. The TV in the room - playing some news that an idiot relative tuned into while visiting and forgot to switch back - jarred the silence. 

You'd never be able to reach for the remote but you'd be able to hear everything, right from the mundane weather report to the violence around the world or an occasional fluff piece about some monkey wearing a tiara.

You would be stuck listening to the same bland stuff on repeat. You would be rendered helpless to do something about the news, about life.

That was the memory of my sexual assault. That was the dragged version of it in my mind, replaying itself in an infinite loop of torture.

Trying not to underplay the significance of the Monday morning, it was the Monday afternoon that was more turbulent.

Leo's bruised knuckles didn't just abrade Antonio's face, it peeled off the last layers of apprehension in me. His heaving chest and bloodshot eyes may have been from the aftermath of his wrath, it only encased me in the blanket of his comfort.

When I left Leo's office, I assumed to be found dead, killed by someone who Antonio must have sent to finish the job.

In that moment of vulnerability, when the word hope seemed like a cruel joke from the universe, my fake fiancé intervened. He assured me, I was safe.

When he fought for me and calmed me, the pedestal I put him on rose into the stars and beyond. Leo didn't pity, he didn't sympathize. He did what a survivor might have wanted the most.

He gave me space. He let me be.

That gesture tossed up what I felt for him from the dungeons of my heart and stomach. Unchained words narrated my affection and adoration for him, untamed feelings martyred themselves on the sword of love.

I didn't expect reciprocation. I didn't calculate a rejection either.

Had I known he would reject me, would I have still confessed?

Maybe.

Loving Leo was easy. He didn't alter me to fit his requirement. He let me be me. By being himself, he eased me into his company. So the burden I carried in my mind was not about telling him but about how to do it.

How to tell him what he meant? How to ask him to give us a chance?

I did it anyway.

Actions were undertaken and sins of my heart were confessed. From that moment, that Monday evening trickled through the hourglass of patience at the pace of a century.

A lifetime of pain was endured in a matter of a few minutes. The agony of rejection - of understanding that I meant nothing to Leo - burnt me from the inside.

"I don't love you," weren't merely words from him. It was the quake that crumbled my fairy kingdom. It unhinged my dreams, it destroyed my hopes.

In the hazed background of those memories, I stood staring at my closet.

When I first arrived at Leo's apartment, it took me half a week to unpack my luggage. With his help, I somehow managed. Leo took the effort of hanging my attires in proper rows, lengthwise, unlike at home where I would shove them into my closet after balling them in a lump.

Leo even helped arrange my footwear, mumbling something about, "Using it like a hammering equipment, if his drills went missing."

My life of two months and my love of what felt like an eternity was repacked within hours.

They said heartbreak pulled people down but for me, it pumped me up with so much adrenaline, I was ready to lift a mountain.

Leo had left me in the privacy of the apartment, pasting a note under the fridge magnet.

Going out. Will be back by 7.

For a normal person, that message might sound simple; of someone running errands till seven. Knowing Leo, I could hear his unspoken words.

Going out. Please ensure that you'd either be prepared for what we'd decided – a platonic relationship - or you have time to move out without seeing me. Without me causing you any more hurt. Will be back by 7.

During my stay, I preserved all of Leo's notes. Needless to say, this last one too found its way into my bag.

I pulled my roll-ons and scanned my empty room one last time.

I had grown used to the surroundings, acclimatized to the serenity and the comfort this place brought me. Most of all, I had grown used to the man, the co-resident of this apartment.

As I walked out, our laughter clutched my hand, our shared sorrows held my bags and my love for Leo restrained my steps.

Don't go.

Whoever said leaving a loved one was difficult, clearly wasn't a writer or a poet. Books could be dedicated to the process, plays could be written about that instance. The moment when one had to sever everything from a person who once used to be the center of gravity and move on.

My drive home passed in a blur.

Since Monday, everything did.

Dad stood out in the driveway when I reached. Upon seeing me, he held his arms up and walked over. His embrace used to be my panacea, melting off my burden and wrapping me with a sense of comfort. That day his embrace failed to deliver. I prayed not to have turned into a terminal case of hopelessness where even his magical hug couldn't work.

In my room, Dad reassembled my belongings back to their position.

I sat on the bed, unmoving as if someone covered me in plaster. The compass that was my mind pinged towards my true north; towards my Leo. My mind echoed all of our conversations, the loudest being his rejection.

"I don't love you," replayed at intervals, the decrescendo to our once perfect symphony.

"You look like someone whose cancer results came out positive." Dad peered at me after finishing his task.

When his final attempt at making me laugh failed, Dad sat next to me, staring hard at the closed door with the words – 'Zemira's dreamland' written in glitter by my four-year-old self. 

Twenty-two year me pitied the hopes and dreams of my younger version.

"Do you want to watch something?" Dad asked, pointing to the blank screen on the wall. 

He took my sigh as a confirmation, surfing through the ocean of options when one channel caught my attention.

"Hold on," I said, grabbing his hand.

Our interview was re-telecasted. Leo's face fit the tv screen.

My stomach somersaulted when the interviewer asked him the question, "What do you like about Zemira?"

"Ohh." His smile, followed by a soft tilt to the side as he looked into the camera, pierced through my heart. "That's a hard question. It's easier to answer what I don't like about her. Zemira is perfect. She's the complete package. Anyone who gets to know her and loves her is lucky. I was one among them."

The muscles in my chest pulled back, hearing his casual remark. He rejected his complete package, just like my unrequited feelings.

Dad pulled my head over his chest, patting it. "I don't have words..."

I bit the insides of my cheeks, anything to numb the pain.

"I didn't know he would..." Dad said, swallowing the remaining words.

He would what? Not accept my love. Toss it away.

"What dad?"

"I didn't know Leo was trying to protect you," Dad answered, parting my messed locks to a side.

I looked up at him but he continued eying the screen, now paused on Leo's image.

"Protect me from what?"

"Himself."

"You gathered that from what, Dad?" Tears spilt. Logic trawled for a footing. "Him calling me a complete package?"

"No, kiddo. I assumed that from his word 'was'. Leo didn't say he is lucky to have you. Maybe because he had already broken up with you in his mind."

"Wow." My voice scratched my throat. "Good to know I was dumped even before we had a chance to be a couple."

It was atypical of Dad to smile when I cried. Yet, he did, rattling my shoulders.

"No, my child." Though he turned off the TV screen, Leo's face remained in my mind - an impression in the wet clay of my memories. "You weren't dumped or whatever you kids call it these days. You were saved by a man who thought he couldn't save you."

~

This catastrophic event is called love.

Don't you just love cryptic conversations? I know, I do ;)

Let me know your thoughts on this chapter.

Happy reading <3