Chapter Text
Volta Region, Ghana
14th April
10:43 p.m.
I’ve been binge-watching Schitt’s Creek.
It started as background noise — something to fill the quiet — but somewhere along the way, it became something else. A balm. A mirror. A low-budget escape where people fall in love and become better versions of themselves and are allowed, somehow, to be seen.
I watch David and Patrick and feel my whole body ache. Because I see these stories on the telly, read these novels, and my toes curl and I smile — that strange, involuntary kind of smile that lives halfway between hope and heartbreak — and then the ache sets in.
The ache of knowing this could be me.
This could be mine.
But it isn’t.
Alex would be the one to sing “You’re Simply the Best” in front of a room full of people for me — just like Patrick did.
He’d dance like an idiot, like he meant it. Like the performance was a declaration and a dare. He’d make sure every single person knew it was for me.
He’d swagger. He’d sing. He’d throw in stupid body rolls and exaggerated winks. He’d try to drag me up for a dance, and I’d squirm with embarrassment — skin flushing red, ears burning, completely mortified. Too many eyes on me.
But I wouldn’t be able to look away.
Because I’d have Alex.
And Alex would sing for me, even in a crowded room.
——
That’s the thing with these romances — I love them.
But they leave behind a visceral pain.
Because I can imagine us in every version of these stories.
And I don’t mean vaguely — I mean vividly.
Vivid enough that it sometimes feels like I’m watching memories, not fantasies. Like I’m recalling a life we actually lived.
And that’s the worst part.
Because now I know Alex.
I know his nervous ticks.
I know how his eyes shine when he talks about his parents’ work, and how they dim when he talks about their divorce.
I know he lives off coffee but eats like he hasn’t had food in days.
I know how his need to do good sometimes snuffs out his ability to feel good.
I know how perfectly his hands fit in mine.
I know the sound of his breath as he spoons me to sleep.
I know that sometimes he kisses like it’s his last day on earth, and sometimes he kisses like, even with the world crashing, he can stop time.
Now that I know this Alex —
My daydreams are no longer figments.
They’re mirages in high definition.
And now, they’re my addiction.
A type of self-harm that’s difficult to explain.
Sometimes I think in excruciating detail about the life we could have had.
I construct entire timelines: weekends in Rome, grocery lists in DC, walks in Hyde Park, laughter in rooms without cameras.
Sometimes, I even dare to dream of children.
Of Sunday mornings.
Of anniversaries and Christmas lights.
It’s a compulsive need — to craft the most joyful, ordinary life possible for us.
Because somewhere in me, I know that if I were brave, I could make some of it real.
But I’m not brave.
I never was.
So I let it go.
And then I punish myself for it.
The ache that follows — the pain that curls into my chest after I snap back to reality — it almost feels like penance.
Therapeutic, even.
Because what is this ache compared to the failure that I am?
I left the boy who dared to love me, even through walls.
Even through silence.
I was once lucky enough to call Alex a friend.
And then I was blessed beyond reason to call him a lover.
And then I walked away.
So this?
This ritual of imagining and aching and pretending?
This isn’t even self-harm.
It’s a gift.
Because I still get to dream of a happy Alex.
And what greater joy is there than that?
——
So yeah, my days after that are dull.
I can’t sleep much.
The only reason my hygiene hasn’t gone to hell is because I still have to show up for work.
But in comparison to Alex — even the version of him that only lives in my head — everything else is dull.
And maybe that’s the price I’ve chosen to pay.
To keep him, in some small, distorted way.
Even if only in dreams.
— H