It's been one week and one day since Aemelia said she was leaving.
I haven't seen her since. I got a text the other day saying that she was going to have coffee with some woman from the National something or other, saying that her life was going to be better now, and that she was sorry but she couldn't come in today, but could come in on Thursday.
Originally I was supposed to see her last Tuesday, one week ago, when she came into Glasgow one last time and removed all connection of her name to our tiny world here. One week since she brought her mother, for "moral support" she said, but we knew, we know, it was because she was worried. She was worried of what we might say that day, what we might do were we to come across her, standing there at the desk, signing away her future.
As I say, she was supposed to see us afterwards, but by the time I gave up waiting and texted her she was "halfway back to Edinburgh". Halfway back to hell, more like.
She has gone, and will not come back. Well, I haven't texted her back about Thursday. I said "well done" and "how are you?" and "hope you are well", but I haven't said yes or no to Thursday. That is in two days. Two days. To decide if I want to see the person who laughed while I cried. To decide whether I want to see that person who made me feel dead inside. To decide whether life will end or I will go on besides.
I can do this all day. This rhyming thing. But right now I have my life to live. I have to get on with my lectures.
So it good bye for now, friend, and see you tomorrow. This is the mark of my sorrow.
