The Hand on the Shoulder

Timothy was sitting on one of the two single beds, caressing the soft beige sheets freshened by the noisy air conditioning. Lena had been out for a few hours; she was due back any moment. He had dinner at a greasy pizza place and was now waiting for her.

It felt so empty, inside the modest hotel room they had been staying in during that strangely long holiday of theirs. Timothy hated to be alone, although he never told Lena out of shame. Silence felt so terrible, making his frail mind louder. People out there tend to assume that, if you do not experience some things, it automatically means you are completely fine on your own. They seem to forget that even a cactus needs water.

He picked up the handset of the landline phone placed on the bedside table, listening to the continuous dial tone. He did not know why, but it usually had a calming effect on him. This time, however, it was of no use. He turned on the obsolete television set, absent-mindedly hopping through the channels. Same story.

So, he opened the French door and stepped out onto the balcony, leaning against the metallic railing. The placid peripheral streets of the seaside city, dotted with lush maritime pines, were illuminated by cosy halogen lampposts. There was a pleasant breeze carrying a faint hint of salt air.

Whenever Lena was away, his painfully infallible memory brought back images and sensations from those long years of confused, deep loneliness. Chasing elusive people who thought it was acceptable to disappear without any notice and forget everything because they were “just” friends. All while continuously blaming himself for it.

She was different, the first person to make him feel truly seen, understood, safe. He never felt so much love in his life.

It was incredibly natural, their relationship. And yet, the world seemed to think it was not. That it was something broken, incomplete. Apparently, you cannot call it love if you do not kiss or engage in certain intimate activities.

“Come on, mate, how can you not like it? You’re such a miserable weirdo.”

“Cut this queerplatonic farce and call yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend already!”

Did he have to change? He could not force himself to do things he never craved and was repulsed by. Did he have to end it with Lena? He would never be able to and knew he would regret it for the rest of his living days if he did. Then why was he unable to let go of those stupid questions, of those pointless judgements?

Behind him, he heard the door to the room open. “Hi, Tim!” It was Lena. She joined him on the balcony. She gently touched his shoulder. “Is everything okay?” 

At first, he did not reply. Her touch was always able to do that. To put the shards of his soul back together, to make every doubt go away. “Yes, just missed you a bit”, he eventually whispered, as he put his arm around her shoulders. She smiled, resting her head against his side.

It is about hope, some would say. But not the vain one that things which never get better might suddenly do so. No, the hope that the little corner of the world you somehow made your own, where everything inexplicably has more sense and you feel less alone, would last at least for a while. And that it will not vanish, leaving you once again in the abyss that has always been your home.