I came home frantically, slamming the door shut. I threw my keys on the table to my left and checked my land-line's voicemail. Empty: again. I looked at my mobile phone, no messages.
I checked to make sure my texts to my best friend went through. They did, one after another after another, no response for two years.
I called my mother, it went to a full voicemail box: "please try again later," it said. I covered my face with my hands.
"Who do I talk to, who do I talk to?" I whispered frantically to myself as I paced anxiously. I listened to the advice of my therapist, who was booked months in advance, often unable to get to her voicemails.
"Write down your thoughts." I said, echoing the words of my therapist. I repeated this to myself numerous times as I went to my room, and dug through my desk drawer for a pen and my journal.
Finding an empty page, I sat down, spinning my office chair towards my notebook on my desk. I licked the tip of my pen and pressed it to the paper. I stopped.
"Where do I even begin..." I whispered to myself hopelessly. I lifted my pen, a small black damp stain was left on the paper.
I wiggled my pen around in the air for a few moments, then I just started writing anything that came to mind. I read my words aloud to myself as I wrote.
"I have nobody to talk to," I said, "I'm running out of antidepressants, I can't afford next month's antidepressants, my car is broken, I'm getting sick from walking to work in the winter, my job is dead-end."
I left my pen for so long on the paper that the comma at the end of "dead-end" became a period.
"Is that really it?" I said to myself. "How is this insignificance so overbearing? It's just six things. six, BIG things, but six things. I'm an adult, I should be able to do this. " I said, my confidence wavering.
I then retreated to my one solitude in life: writing literature. I turned the page and began to write a story: a boy meeting a girl in a coffee shop.
They exchanged glances in line until they both ordered. They stood next to each other, both of them wishing that the other would make the move. That one of them would be confident enough.
The barista called the name Elliotte and they both grabbed for the coffee cup. As it turned out, they both had the same name, albeit different spellings.
The male saw that the name wasn't spelled the same as his: Elliot. "My name is missing the 't e'" he said to her. She giggled.
"It's funny," she said, "I've always liked the name Tina, but it's the same name as my dog." she said as she stirred her coffee with a wooden stirrer, blowing into it occasionally. "I guess te will do."
"Is your dog as cute as you?" said the boy. Shortly after, he covered his mouth with his hands, hoping he could stop his sentence before it left his mouth.
The girl looked at him wide-eyed and turned red. They both laughed and shortly after, the boy's name was called and he grabbed his drink.
The girl watched him grab his hot red paper cup with a drink with whipped cream. She stood there rigidly, taking small sips of her scorching hot coffee.
The boy turned around and flinched, not expecting her to still be there and a tiny bit of his drink spilled on her hands and the sleeves of her thick white sweater.
"Oh no!" said the boy, putting his coffee on the table behind him, "I'm so sorry." He pulled out napkins from the inside pocket of his jacket and began wiping her hands... until they met. They looked each other in the eyes and both smiled.
"It's okay." she whispered with a smile. She grabbed his coffee and handed it to him. "Do you want to get a table?"
The boy's hairs on the back of his neck stood up, he began sweating and then quickly nodded. Once they sat down, they were quiet for a few moments.
The girl took a sip of her coffee and realized some of his coffee actually spilled inside her paper cup, bits of whipped cream floating on top of her coffee.
"Your coffee tastes good." she said. "Is it peppermint?"
"Thanks." he said. "And yes, it is. I'm just trying to stay in the holiday spirit." he said chuckling. "I never got to try yours." She poured a little bit of her black coffee into his.
"There." she said. "Now we're even." she said playfully with a smile, laughing. They both laughed, then smiled at each other in silence. Then: they talked. They talked for hours.
They talked about everything, their families, how they've slowly lost touch with them, how annoyed they are that people never respond to their texts,how their cars broke down and they have to walk in the winter to work every morning, their dead end jobs...
After writing pages upon pages of dialogue, I stopped and noticed the tears dripping from my face onto the paper; smudging the perfect world I had created.
I buried my hands into my face, and then I cried. Boy, I cried.