ALONE

by Jayden Miller-Jones

He ficked the lighter once, and the sparks few out with a pitiful exuberance.

“Shit” he thought to himself before chucking the cigarette into the street below him. He let out a sigh and looked around. The day was cold, and the city fowed around him. He turned around and walked back into the building, where he was greeted by a blonde receptionist whose eyes seemed to look past him.

“She’s ready to see you now.” He nodded and walked into the room behind her. They began with small talk, as they always had. She asked him about menial things, his work, his mother, all before settling in and asking him the real question. “What about you? How are you doing?” He glanced out the window. He knew he needed to be here, but he always hated having to come. The thought of explaining himself to anyone else made him feel queasy. He wanted to tell her something normal, that he was fne, as he would to everyone else who asked him that question, but he knew she wouldn’t accept it as a genuine response. He didn’t even accept it himself. He knew the truth. The cold reality that he woke to every morning. He was the only one who knew the answer to the question. The feeling had been hanging over him for what seemed like lifetimes. He wanted to get rid of it, but he felt he would never be able to.

She sat, patiently waiting for his response. His breathing faltered, and he slowly began to speak. “I’m…” he stammered, struggling to fnd the words to describe the feeling that hovered over him. She continued her silence as she shifted in her seat. “I’m feeling a bit lost, I guess.” He was fnally able to force the words out, immediately regretting them. He watched her nod as she asked him to explain, prompting him to continue. He thought back to the night before. How he laid in bed staring at the ceiling fan, watching it turn and turn, never stopping to catch its breath. He’d been spending more of his nights like that now, laying in his bed idly, merely existing as the world surrounding him passed by without a glance. He was so lost in his own thoughts that he hadn’t noticed her saying his name. “Sorry, I’m just trying to fgure out the best way to explain it. I guess I just feel very disconnected. I can’t really explain why, but the world just feels removed, or maybe I feel removed from it? I don’t know.” She looked at him intently. Before she could respond, he continued, “This feeling isn’t foreign to me. I’ve felt it before, but never to this level. I feel sick. Like there’s this pit in my stomach keeping me from moving. When I ignore it, the pit gets bigger; when I think about it I’m overcome by this monstrous fear that disrupts my entire day. When I try to fx it I realize how deep the pit is. It’s like a blackhole and the more time goes on the more it consumes.” He looked at her now, realizing how much he was talking. He felt queasy again. She was the only person who could get him to talk that much and she knew it. She sat in silence for a while collecting her thoughts. She was going to respond but before she could he was explaining himself once again. “I had a dream the other night. I was inside of a mall and every door I opened led back to the frst room. Around me I could hear people laughing and talking. I heard mothers reprimanding their children, young couples giggling with joy and friends gossiping about pointless things. Something told me all of them, all of these individual groups existed somewhere behind one of these doors and to reach them all I had to do was open the right one. I heard someone call my name, I heard another person say I love you, I heard voices I haven’t heard in years calling for me. The more doors I opened the more voices I heard, but regardless of how many I opened they all led back to the same spot. I had to have opened maybe 30 doors and each time I found myself right where I started. Alone listening to the people around me.” They both sat in silence. He cried, and she hugged him. All of their conversations seemed to end this way. He hated coming here, but he knew he needed to.