PERSONAL ESSAY

The Room Where We Loved and Fought

I know there will come a day when I’ll weep for this

Photo by on Pexels.

Rooms are more than just spaces. James Baldwin knew it better. He wrote of two men, David and Giovanni, once strangers, who found something like love in that Parisian room, hands clasped tight but not tight enough. They walked the streets of Paris together, feeling the warmth of each other’s touch until that warmth turned cold.

One morning, as light filled the room, Giovanni sat on the bed, naked, holding a glass of cognac. David turned to the door and reached for the knob. Out. Never looked back.

I’m sitting on the bed, head down, staring at my fingers digging into my thumbnail like it’s all that matters. The silence presses down like a pump, squeezing the air out of the room.

I don’t want to look up and see his face. Seen enough of that anger. Inside, I’m shouting; just say it or I will. Because I can’t anymore, like this. Eyes burn with red every day.

But I know me. Won’t say it. So I sit, silent, waiting for him to speak.

Then, as if on cue, he speaks, pulling the words right out of my head. Out of my heart? Maybe.

I lift my head and meet his eyes. They used to look at me with love; now…