Today, she is sat across from me. Her perfume fills the air. In our home together, evidence of her existence is plastered across our walls, counters, tables… Everything. Her unfolded clothes on the foot of our bed, her nearly worn-out toothbrush, a vase-like object held together by only glue, since I had broken it due to my clumsiness around a year ago, and even the closet, holding all of her replaced blankets and pillows. Every room held proof of her life. Even the room I was in now, the living room, was decorated with her desires in mind. I can recall the sparkle in her eyes as she shopped for all of the furniture, holding my debit card no doubt.
Sitting on the end of our velvet couch, something we bought right after our honeymoon, I thought of the day we met. As I drifted off to daydream land, I felt comforted by her in the room with me, regardless of her silence. Her silence was not my misery, contrary to popular belief. I love every moment beside my wife, in speech and in silence. So this was no different. Her presence alone was a comfort, a relaxer.
At this moment, I’m brought to the day that we first crossed paths. About 13 years ago now, when we were freshly 18. I can’t help but chuckle at this, because damn, I’m old. The day we met, though, I was not. I was young, my entire life with her ahead of me. I had not yet even lived, not for a single moment. It was give or take noon and definitely far too hot for your average spring day. The wind was slow with no signs of picking up, causing the heat to be almost unbearable.
I remember so many small details about this day, even though I struggle to remember what I ate for breakfast a mere two hours later. For example, I remember that there were only a few clouds in the sky, only adding to the particularly insufferable heat. I also remember that I was in a rush that day, trying my best to rush to where I needed to be– an important job interview. Finally, I remember exactly what she was wearing. It was a fairly basic sundress, sporting a floral design from top to bottom. In truth, it was the most beautiful dress I’d laid eyes on– not counting the one I watched her walk down the aisle in.
She was seated at a bench by a bus stop, and I was passing by. As I walked by, though, I tripped on the crack in the sidewalk. The only way I managed to catch my fall was by stumbling embarrassingly into a streetlight. Her stifled laughter was all I heard just moments later, which turned into a hushed silence as I turned to look at her. We both stared at each other for a moment, and she seemed unable to contain herself, a hand covering her mouth as she shook with suppressed laughter and elation. The anger left my body upon seeing this– I found myself clicking with her so naturally. What normally would have pissed me off beyond reason was endearing. Finally, after some silence, she let out a laugh, then started a conversation with me.“Ha! Sorry, couldn’t hold it,” she admitted, grinning. I was embarrassed, so in the moment I scowled, but after a moment I sighed. Again, I couldn’t be mad at her– not when she had so effortlessly caught my eye with such a simple thing.“Yeah, I think I’d laugh too,” I replied, still slightly delirious from the sudden (almost) fall. I found myself slightly nervous during this encounter, like something was on the line. In truth, the nerves were far greater her than at my actual interview.She huffed air out of her nose with a small smile at that, which I took as “that wasn’t very funny, but for the sake of this social interaction I’ll force a half-chuckle.” I remember collecting myself for a moment after that, allowing silence to drive a wedge between us. She focused back on the bus stop after that, but once I had managed to shake off the adrenaline of nearly ruining my day, I spoke.
I don’t remember what I said that day. I was too involved with her beauty, her charm. I found myself unable to focus on my own words. I do remember I completely butchered that interview, though. I was late, couldn’t focus and, turns out, dropped my resume– which was how she ended up contacting me a mere day or two later.
So with a sigh, now in the present, I look across me, at my wife. My wife, my love, my everything. A smile forms on my face, disturbing the place that my wrinkles typically occupy. She was beautiful today, as she is everyday, sporting an all-gray look. My smile remained, though, and after a moment, I spoke.“Sweetheart,” I began, my voice unused to projecting itself in any capacity. It was my first time saying anything that day. I hadn’t found a reason for conversation, it seems. Being talkative was my wife’s trait. So, with a quick clearing of my throat, I continued to speak, still smiling softly in my wife’s direction.“Do you remember what I said?”I asked, looking at her expectantly. I could only assume she was looking back at me in the only way she knew how, which was a belief based purely on my need for something comforting in the moment.There was more silence. I supposed she did not, perhaps for the same reason as I. Perhaps she was captured by my beauty, unable to think about her own words, either. It was quite the entertaining thought, eliciting a weary chuckle from myself. Then I pushed away that thought entirely. After all, an urn cannot hold her memories. It can hardly hold her ashes with how poor of a job I did gluing it back together.

Today, she is sat across from me. Her perfume fills the air. In our home together, evidence of her existence is plastered across our walls, counters, tables… Everything. Her unfolded clothes on the foot of our bed, her nearly worn-out toothbrush, a vase-like object held together by only glue, since I had broken it due to my clumsiness around a year ago, and even the closet, holding all of her replaced blankets and pillows. Every room held proof of her life. Even the room I was in now, the living room, was decorated with her desires in mind. I can recall the sparkle in her eyes as she shopped for all of the furniture, holding my debit card no doubt.
Sitting on the end of our velvet couch, something we bought right after our honeymoon, I thought of the day we met. As I drifted off to daydream land, I felt comforted by her in the room with me, regardless of her silence. Her silence was not my misery, contrary to popular belief. I love every moment beside my wife, in speech and in silence. So this was no different. Her presence alone was a comfort, a relaxer.
At this moment, I’m brought to the day that we first crossed paths. About 13 years ago now, when we were freshly 18. I can’t help but chuckle at this, because damn, I’m old. The day we met, though, I was not. I was young, my entire life with her ahead of me. I had not yet even lived, not for a single moment. It was give or take noon and definitely far too hot for your average spring day. The wind was slow with no signs of picking up, causing the heat to be almost unbearable.
I remember so many small details about this day, even though I struggle to remember what I ate for breakfast a mere two hours later. For example, I remember that there were only a few clouds in the sky, only adding to the particularly insufferable heat. I also remember that I was in a rush that day, trying my best to rush to where I needed to be– an important job interview. Finally, I remember exactly what she was wearing. It was a fairly basic sundress, sporting a floral design from top to bottom. In truth, it was the most beautiful dress I’d laid eyes on– not counting the one I watched her walk down the aisle in.
She was seated at a bench by a bus stop, and I was passing by. As I walked by, though, I tripped on the crack in the sidewalk. The only way I managed to catch my fall was by stumbling embarrassingly into a streetlight. Her stifled laughter was all I heard just moments later, which turned into a hushed silence as I turned to look at her. We both stared at each other for a moment, and she seemed unable to contain herself, a hand covering her mouth as she shook with suppressed laughter and elation. The anger left my body upon seeing this– I found myself clicking with her so naturally. What normally would have pissed me off beyond reason was endearing. Finally, after some silence, she let out a laugh, then started a conversation with me.“Ha! Sorry, couldn’t hold it,” she admitted, grinning. I was embarrassed, so in the moment I scowled, but after a moment I sighed. Again, I couldn’t be mad at her– not when she had so effortlessly caught my eye with such a simple thing.“Yeah, I think I’d laugh too,” I replied, still slightly delirious from the sudden (almost) fall. I found myself slightly nervous during this encounter, like something was on the line. In truth, the nerves were far greater her than at my actual interview.She huffed air out of her nose with a small smile at that, which I took as “that wasn’t very funny, but for the sake of this social interaction I’ll force a half-chuckle.” I remember collecting myself for a moment after that, allowing silence to drive a wedge between us. She focused back on the bus stop after that, but once I had managed to shake off the adrenaline of nearly ruining my day, I spoke.
I don’t remember what I said that day. I was too involved with her beauty, her charm. I found myself unable to focus on my own words. I do remember I completely butchered that interview, though. I was late, couldn’t focus and, turns out, dropped my resume– which was how she ended up contacting me a mere day or two later.
So with a sigh, now in the present, I look across me, at my wife. My wife, my love, my everything. A smile forms on my face, disturbing the place that my wrinkles typically occupy. She was beautiful today, as she is everyday, sporting an all-gray look. My smile remained, though, and after a moment, I spoke.“Sweetheart,” I began, my voice unused to projecting itself in any capacity. It was my first time saying anything that day. I hadn’t found a reason for conversation, it seems. Being talkative was my wife’s trait. So, with a quick clearing of my throat, I continued to speak, still smiling softly in my wife’s direction.“Do you remember what I said?”I asked, looking at her expectantly. I could only assume she was looking back at me in the only way she knew how, which was a belief based purely on my need for something comforting in the moment.There was more silence. I supposed she did not, perhaps for the same reason as I. Perhaps she was captured by my beauty, unable to think about her own words, either. It was quite the entertaining thought, eliciting a weary chuckle from myself. Then I pushed away that thought entirely. After all, an urn cannot hold her memories. It can hardly hold her ashes with how poor of a job I did gluing it back together.

There is a particular whimsy that comes with being socially unaware.On one hand, you can feign innocence with ease. On the other hand, you feel as though you’ve made a fool of yourself with every failed interaction. I am not new to this feeling– one of embarrassment and shame. It’s a particular blunder, one that can shut you off from socialization entirely. It may cause you to close the blinds to your life, keeping the door locked— because nobody will understand it but you, and you will not understand anything. Not even yourself.It wasn’t this type of blunder that shunned the idea of socialization from my head. It wasn’t even an interaction that turned me away from the idea, in all honesty. Instead, it was an excruciating realization: I cannot choose to open the blinds. Forever, they shall stay closed, simply because of how I was born. Forever, I am trapped with the curse of inadequacy in each route I take regarding socialization. Although this revelation is soul-crushing, mine remains intact. Even though I may excel in anything else, there is an acceptance that comes with blinds born shut. Yes, they may be bolted, and yes one may attempt to peer inside and never understand, but it allows for unadulterated solitude. Forever, my thoughts will be mine alone, lest I decide to uncage them temporarily.Some may feign understanding, though my ironclad blinds will know otherwise, keeping them from breaching my fortress of ignorance and inadequacy. They will coo a chorus of comforts, attempting to reach within me, though their attempts will end in failure. I will reply with as much sweetness as one can muster, unable to outright reject their attempts. Alongside my social ineptness comes the art of people pleasing, a skill I, similarly, am woefully terrible at. I will poorly attempt to give them the pleasure of “helping” me, albeit a weak facade. I will thank them profusely, wiping away a pretend tear to show my unending gratitude. I will smile, nodding along with their self-sung praises, feeling as if I have “won” for now, or at least succeeded in proving an ounce of my own worth. This victory will prove short-lived, though, as humanity is insatiable. They will always come back for more, and so I fall into the never ending cycle of pleasing, just to protect my ever-closed blinds.
I would not be writing this if my blinds remained comfortably closed for my entire life. That would make for quite the uninteresting story. Instead, I have fallen into peril, and must yell out into the world for an answer. If I should receive one, I might never know. Perhaps only in death shall my cries of discomfort be heard and given a response. Perhaps, after so long of solitude, that is what I deserve. It is what I deserve for believing that my solitude was my own to keep, for believing it is my one constant.
On a day before the one in front of me, my blinds began to melt. Now, this did not mean it was open. No, this was far from the case. You see, I did not wake up as an expert of socialization. I didn't even wake up an expert on pleasing people. Instead, I felt as though I were being violated. I began to see the Sun bleeding invasively into my space of solitude. I could deny the time of day no longer, forced to re-engage my daily routine of forced socialization and incessant blunders.I could not ever possibly explain the meaning behind the crumbling abode within my mind, which is the source of my issue. With each passing moment, echoes of the world beyond clash against every surface in my mind, pressuring me to respond in one way or another. While the average person may welcome the invitation to socialize, I scowl at the thought. This is an intrusion, only comparable to that of ripping open one’s wound. My gash is bare for the world to witness, for the world to perceive and rip wider. The blood of my solitude seeps from the opening, flooding in any direction it can.I cannot fathom a reason for the world’s intrusion upon my privacy. There is nothing of use here– only the nakedness of my mind and a fragile heart on display. Perhaps this weakness is what humanity craves. It is possible they seek to watch someone below them in order to lift themselves up. If that is the role I must play, with or without my consent, I suppose I must come to accept it. After all, I have not the strength to push back. So I shall accept it for all its ugliness and discomfort, yearning only for its end and not the rotten fruit it may bear.Truth be told, I have no interest in the tree that sprouts from my agony.
I’ll continue to watch the world around me melt, unable to blockade myself from interaction. Perhaps I can make something beautiful out of it, like a story, though I don’t know who I will tell it to. I am sure that anyone I tell it to will only fake knowing its meaning, wanting to indulge in some sort of “meaningful conversation,” though it will no doubt fall flat. I hold no interest in thoughtful conversation– the most intricate of revelations happen in my own head, with myself.A picture perfect world would be one where I am alone with my thoughts, my blinds impenetrable. This was my life, up until an undetermined amount of time prior to now. Although my heart is now bare for the world to criticize, I will pursue a life of proper loneliness, perhaps by crafting my own new blinds in order to keep this invasive species one calls humanity out. The longer that I am naked, the longer I will receive unwanted perceptions, with eyes on me at what feels like every second of my life.I will never escape the feeling of being watched, not until my blinds are shut once more, as they should be. Equilibrium as I know it has shifted, yet I am forced to adjust to the result. This was a madness I did not agree to, something the world had surely done to spite me. The world has gathered to witness my naked suffering, to point and laugh at my inadequacies. They guffaw at my gashes, howl at my hurt and shriek at my shudders, entertained by my clear suffering. They care not for my lack of joy, perhaps even more entertained by said distress. This is why I choose solitude. At least, in this world full of cheaters, liars, and boisterous disrespect, I will never forsake myself. In myself I can always trust. After all, it is impossible to lie to my own face if I cannot see it. I am the only authenticity I can trust.The Sun has finally stopped bleeding into my fortress, meaning that nightfall has emerged once more. This is a relief, as it means that I can rest with hopes that I will wake up enclosed by my bolted blinds once more. I almost feel excited at the thought, ready to pounce at any opportunity to shield my bareness from this unforgiving world. If it would work to cover my physical form, I would kiln myself in a coat of ceramic, hugged by the heat that promises protection.I cannot recall how many hours I’ve spent mourning the death of my privacy, though I hold no doubt that I’ve spent hours in contemplation, scheming for a way back into my shell. Now that the Sun no longer blinds me, all I can do is crawl into my bed, now staring at the ceiling as I wait for the gentle tug of sleep in my mind. For just a moment, I feel at peace, capable of ignoring the smell and gorey look of my blinds, which reek of burnt plastic.After a grueling day of grappling with my own distress, my eyes flutter to a close, and I finally have a sense of privacy. If I cannot see the eyes that peer into my soul, perhaps I never need to acknowledge them, and I am truly alone. If this is the only comforting privacy I will get, I will bask in it for as long as I can, even if it means I shall not sleep for countless nights. I deserve my alone time, after all, since I’ve spent all day being peered at and judged by what I can only assume are thousands of sneering individuals.Sleep finds me before I am aware that it has come. Although I woefully accepted a life lacking sleep, the stress produced today was enough to thoroughly exhaust me. The relief I received upon closing my eyes pulled the panic-induced adrenaline from my body, drowning me in an indescribable sleep depravity. My mind and body were more than welcome to invite sleep into my world. It is the one exception to my walls of privacy, as it serenades me into a dreamworld— one where nobody but myself exists. It is here that I learned if my eyes are closed, so are my blinds.If I never wake up, perhaps my privacy will be guaranteed.