The ferry leaves in the morning. My bag is packed, sitting by the front door. The curtains are drawn, but I don’t need to see out the window to know what’s there. On the horizon my islands disappear into misty mountains, sea and sky fading into beautiful deep grey between them.
I haven’t decided if I will stay or go.
She came to me yesterday, full of promises and absolution. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t myself I couldn’t forgive; but the words got lost somewhere between love and hate. When I look in the mirror all I see are her eyes, and the view from my window has never been clear. Glass is the enemy. All it gives me are memories, but I know the past. It’s the future I can’t quite grasp.
I cannot imagine my life in a place other than this. I will not know myself if I stay.
The sun is dropping closer to the horizon line. I can tell by the way the light changes inside, shadows pooling around the cup of tea in my hands. Steam rises from it, identical to the mist slowly disappearing outside. My bag is already packed, but her words are hooked through my skin, barbed and pleading. The whistle blows in my mind, and I watch myself walking the path down to the docks. In my imagination I don’t glance behind; in my day dreams she doesn’t come to see if I will go. If she’s there I might not have the courage. If she isn’t, I might not have a reason.