Chapter Twelve
It seemed that songs were the method through which Kirk wanted to communicate with Sasha.
Weeks passed before any more emails arrived from him.
After the initial, ‘See? He does still love me! He does still care!’ the silence dampened her hope again. Perhaps it was just a momentary blip he’d had. Perhaps he was drunk one night and feeling morose. Perhaps, in the cold light of day, he’d remembered why he’d finished with her (‘You physically assaulted me’) and he would go back to his rigid determination not to contact her.
As each day of silence passed, Sasha’s hope would fade. It really was over, she’d tell herself. She really did have to accept it. No longer could she live in the shock-and-denial-carriage. She had to move into the acceptance carriage and realise that this time, it really was finished. Days rolled into weeks. Sasha would turn up at the coffee shop, save the other sofa for Mrs Wedding Ring, cast a flirty eye at the waiter, drink her coffee and write her morning pages. Mrs Wedding Ring would turn up, fresh-faced and smiling, thank her for saving her a seat, get a cup of tea, make a little small talk and then settle to read her Kindle. The routine rolled on, day after day, week after week. Until words scrolled across Sasha’s page like ‘acceptance…’ and, ‘it really is over this time…’ and ‘he’s not coming back…’
Moving away from the shock and denial, the plaster of acceptance was being placed on her heartbreak. She began to come to realise that yes, it really was final.
Which is why it was confusing that every couple of months Kirk would re-appear, to rip the plaster off, open the wound and re-ignite the pain again.
It was never really possible to move on when he kept re-appearing like this, sparking her hope and showing her that yes, he was still thinking about her and yes, he did still love her.
The next email that arrived was also a late night email. Sasha was beginning to notice a pattern. Could the late nights suggest drink taken? Sitting on his own? Feeling lonely? Reminiscing about their good times?
Again it was songs. A string of songs this time. One after the other. A list of about twenty emails. Sasha couldn’t believe her eyes as they pinged in one after the other. It was like receiving a bountiful feast after months in the desert.
“This is Blondie,” he wrote, attaching a Blondie song. “You look like the girl from Blondie.”
And then another; “This is Kim Wilde. You look like Kim Wilde.”
On and on the songs went, accompanied by compliments and memories. It seemed as if he was having a real reminiscence party and she wasn’t there to join in.
“Can I phone you?” he asked.
Sasha’s heart raced with excitement. This would be the moment. This would be the point where he would say, ‘I can’t live without you. I thought I’d be able to but I can’t. I’ve missed you so much. I just can’t do this, Sasha.’
But, as she got herself ready for the call, sitting up, propping herself up on her pillows, now wide awake; the adrenaline coursed through her. She waited. And waited. And waited. No call came.
Sasha could only conclude that he had fallen asleep.
Sure enough, late the next afternoon, he replied. When she saw his name pop up on the screen, her heart jumped with excitement. This would be the moment where he’d declare his undying love for her, that all these months apart had made him realise how much he loved her.
Sasha was mid-shop in M&S when her phone dinged with excitement. Unable to wait to read his email later, she stood still in the aisle, basket in hand, next to the fresh meats and the packages of sausages and she glanced quickly at his email to get the gist of the content.
“So confused at the moment…..” she saw.
“Sorry for contacting you….”
“It won’t happen again….”
Her heart sank down to her very toes. How could this be happening? How could he be rejecting her again? All these months later? How could he have given her so much heartbreak, and then come back, to further kick her to the floor?
A mixture of disappointment, anger and frustration swirled around inside of her. No more could she concentrate on what she was supposed to be buying. She set her basket down and abandoned her shop, rushing home as fast as she could, to duvet dive and lick her very deep wounds.
Returning home, she read his email in its entirety:
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Hey Sasha, I’m sorry, I was supposed to phone you last night and I didn’t. To be honest, I’d had quite a bit to drink and I simply conked out fast asleep.
I’m sorry for sending you all those emails and songs. As you can probably tell, I’m so confused at the moment. I really don’t know where my head’s at. I’m sorry for contacting you. It’s wrong of me to mess your head up also. It won’t happen again.
Wishing you all the best.
Kirk X
Sasha’s heart sank further. His message was full of love, yet, at the same time, full of goodbyes.
On the one hand, he was telling her that he still had feelings for her, still loved her, couldn’t help thinking about her. Yet, on the other hand, he was telling her goodbye; that he’d never write again.
If it was possible for her heart to break any further, she could have sworn she heard it crack in two.
Every iota of hope, every carrot that he had dangled, had disappeared for good. This really was the end.
Or was it?
Was he only saying that in the cold harsh sober light of day? What would happen when he drank again? Would his beer goggles and his boozy fingers find their way to her email address?
“For God’s sake!” Jason exclaimed when Sasha confided in him. “Please snap out of it!” His tone was harsh; impatient. She had never heard him talk like this before. He seemed exasperated with her; disappointed.
“But I…” Sasha began to argue.
“Sasha, please!” Jason cut in. “How many months is it now since you split up? How many months have you wasted pining over him?”
Sasha made a mental calculation. Too many, probably.
“This could go on, and on, and on for years,” Jason said tiredly. “Are you really going to let him drag this on and on? Can’t you find some way to block every avenue of contact from him?”
Sasha considered it. There probably was some way of creating a filter, so that no emails would pass through the barrier.
But was she really ready to do that yet? Was she really ready to cut off all contact?
What if he had a moment of clarity?
What if he realised his mistakes and came back to her?
What if he just missed her so much and realised he couldn’t live without her?
What if?