“What are we doing?”

The same thing over and over. The candles in the corner flicker; they don’t last very long. The sun will rise long after the wax is gone and the wick burned black. The air is stale and warm. In the hall is the sound of a slowly dripping faucet, the faint heartbeat of a placid house.

“What—”

“We’re learning.”

It’s true: it’s the closest thing to truth, at least. What else is there to say? Too much in too little time.

There’s reason in that truth: fear. It permeates and settles easily in those subtle places. Human nature seizes a piece of that bond between two people, a piece scattered and buried and made nondescript. It becomes a fear of the well-trodden path.

It becomes depression and monotony, the infinite sense of worthlessness. Her eyes are cast downward against the sun. The bedsheets are twisted and unkempt. Her smiles are reserved for strangers and stranger friends. There’s a slight and cold breeze in the air and the gas tank is close to empty.

It becomes anxiety and paranoia. Her lips are parting and closing with a whisper and the breeze seems to deaden at the sound. Someone jogs by on the sidewalk without looking up. She can’t remember if she left the front door open, she can’t remember if he was supposed to visit, she can’t remember—

Why would anyone care about you?

She can’t remember.

“We’re learning.”

They huddle close together. The bedsheets are folded back and the rising sun is soft and warm through the window, a pleasant prickling on the skin. A lengthy silence follows, a natural and gentle stillness. One of them shifts away.

“I hope so.”

“Why do you care?”

The question is grating. It’s saturated with a horror and a hopelessness akin to perhaps an evolution, yet where can they say it’s grown?

It didn’t used to be this way. They didn’t used to vilify these things. It was always a little cold outside, and the sidewalk a little dirty but that was okay. The beachfront was always busy, always with surfers and swimmers, always with playful dogs that leapt through the saltwater foam and kicked sand all around, always with silent joggers and their bouncing ponytails or ballcaps or earbuds, always with happy children and always with older folk content to walk at a tranquil pace. Holding hands. Always.

It’s not there anymore. It’s in memory, somewhere, inaccessible because of the question. It is a roadblock and it is hideous.

Can they call it growth if it is backwards? The sidewalk is clean now, and unbearably hot. There is no ocean, only sand and asphalt, metal and concrete. Can they say this is growth? Time has passed, but not even that is linear. Maybe if they stepped to the side they could see. Perspective is reality. Maybe if they tried to look at it another way… maybe it’s worse than they imagined.

But it is not a collective problem. Perhaps “they” is inappropriate.

“Why do you care, Jack?”

Because her eyes agree with him. Yes, that is the cautious enigma, how typical and naïve, how confusingly predictable, how dull and uninteresting! There is an ardent longing for something so long ago lost yet so close to heart. There is no need for regrets upon the deathbed: pain can be a learned lesson, like waves on the beachfront, that thing that never escapes from memory. Pain can be a reminder of something beyond its face value, of something greater.

Pain can become closure, if you allow it.

He wanted to answer the question. The words were stuck in his throat.

She wasn’t there. The room was quiet, the curtains closed and a small ray of light shone onto the bed. An unused ashtray sat on the dresser. Someone outside laughed.

He looked back at the mirror.