Chapter 12
I was surprised by how alive the city felt. Its unrelenting cadence was accompanied by the
incessant hum of traffic, the conversation of strangers on the
sidewalks, and the subtle aroma of
roasted coffee coming from neighboring cafés. In sharp contrast to the peaceful world I had left behind, it was initially overwhelming. After two weeks in my new existence, however, I
discovered that I was drawn to the pandemonium.
On the outskirts of city, I had taken a tiny apartment in an older building. It was a little one- bedroom apartment with a view of a busy street and fading paint, but it was mine. I felt like I had
something that was all mine for the first time in years
It had taken a while to unpack. I didn’t mind that the majority of my possessions were still in
boxes strewn all over the floor. The disarray served as an odd kind of solace, a reminder that I was
beginning anew.
I didn’t know I needed an anchor until I started working for a nonprofit. I had little time for anything else because the work was difficult and required the majority of my focus. My days were devoted to organizing outreach initiatives, going over financial plans, and coming up with ideas for fundraising efforts. Even while the hours were demanding and frequently draining, it was
rewarding in a manner that my previous life had never been.
However, there were times when I couldn’t help but think of Liam.
Every time I heard a familiar song on the radio or saw couples holding hands on the street, I couldn’t help but think of him. A glimpse of his smile, the way his laughter filled a room, the way he would hug me as if he were terrified to let go–these memories would sneak in at the most
inconvenient times.
He still had that control over me, and I detested it.
I was sitting at my apartment’s tiny dining table one evening, staring at my laptop, following an especially demanding workday. I was browsing through my phone’s pictures when I should have been catching up on emails.
A photo of him from our vacation to Paris showed him grinning at me. He put his arm around my shoulders as we stood in front of the Eiffel Tower, laughing at something I couldn’t recall at the
time.
I experienced the well–known pain in my chest, a mixture of resentment and want. I took a deep breath, put the phone face down on the table, and closed the gallery.
I had fled for this reason–to stay would have meant drowning in the memories of what we had
lost.
Weekends were the most difficult.
I could keep myself occupied during the workweek by assigning duties and deadlines to every hour. However, Saturdays and Sundays went on forever, leaving too much room for my thoughts to
wander.
I made an effort to pass the time by reading, seeing the city, and experimenting with new cuisines. However, none of them was able to completely silence the thoughts that muttered
Liam’s name.
I happened upon a bookstore a few blocks from my apartment one Sunday afternoon With shelves that to the ceiling and a subtle scent of old paper and ink, the shop was small but charming.
I mindlessly perused books, letting their titles blend together as I ran my fingertips along their spines. I didn’t freeze until I got to a display table close to the back
A book Liam had once given me–a compilation of poetry by a writer he knew I adored–was there, nestled amid the meticulously organized novels. On the inside cover, he had scrawled, “May these
speak for me for all the words I cannot find.”
My fingers brushed the book’s cover as I picked it up. The recollection seemed clear, as though it had occurred yesterday. I briefly experienced a tug, a strong want to cling to the remnant of him.
that was still present in my life.
However, I put the book down and turned to go.
Later that evening, while enjoying a glass of wine on my couch, I reflected on how much had changed in such a short period of time. I had a new job, a new apartment, and I was in a new city. I
was gradually finding who I was in unexpected ways.
I detested the fact that Liam’s shadow persisted, though. I detested the fact that he could still make me feel this way despite the distance between us.
Eager to go to work, I got to the office early the following morning. As I turned on my computer, the only sound in the building was the hum of fluorescent lights.
One email in particular caught my attention as I was going through them. The sender was unknown, and the subject line was empty. I clicked it open, frowning.
“You can’t outrun the truth, Nora,” was the only line in the email.
I felt sick to my stomach. It had no signature, no name, and no indication of who submitted it.
However, the words made me shiver.
Heart racing, I gazed at the screen. Was it a coincidence? Or did someone have a message for me?
I sat at my apartment that night with the email playing over and over in my head I kept checking my phone, half expecting to see another message from the unidentified number, but I didn’t get
ད་
any.
I made an effort to tell myself it was nothing–a mistake, a hoax, anything other than how it felt However, I had a sneaking suspicion that my past was still haunting me.
My mind continued to race as I got into bed I closed my eyes in the hopes that sleep would arrive, but it didn’t. Rather, I was looking up at the ceiling while the email’s words replayed in my head.
“The truth cannot be outrun ”
What is the truth?
And why did I feel as though my life was going to fall apart again?
