Living Room

I feel like my entire life I’ve been rushing through the darkness from one lighted area to another. There is one pocket of light I call my bedroom. There is another, which is the kitchen. I eat and sleep in these small spaces, moving only through the dark in betweens to get from one place to the other.

When I work the night shift at the grocery store, I merely get in my car with its little pocket of light, and I move through the darkness. Sleep, food, transportation. Light. Is this all there is to life?

You changed that. You came in as an intruder, flicking on all the lights. “Why is it so dark in here?” you said, and I shrugged and looked away from the bright lights in the living room. You said we should make some popcorn and watch a Romantic comedy, and I said, “I just have normal comedies,” and you said, “Toss one in, then.” We watched Groundhog Day. It sounds simple. Stupid, even, but that’s how my life opened up.

And I resented you for it.

It’s not that I was happy where I was. I wasn’t. It’s just that I was used to it. Life was brighter with you and I should have been happier. Maybe I was. Whatever I was feeling, it was definitely a new feeling. After a while, I found that I was not clinging to my pockets of light anymore. Rather, I was clinging to you.

You became my source of comfort.

We always went where you wanted, did what you wanted. My world, with its bright humming lights and dark transience, was not for you. It was a place I’d created for myself and you… you were a creature of only light, of society and conversations and coffee. And love. This wasn’t my place. But I never said anything. I was happy. Or so I thought.

My resentment began to bubble up and we got into fights about stupid shit. I think most couples do, but I was always the one who started them. And I would always apologize to you and never the other way around. But didn’t you see? Didn’t you see what your light was doing to me? I needed my own space to be lonely and miserable and comfortable. I needed my routine to fall back on and your constant need for light was burning me out.

I know it sounds stupid. I think you’d had enough, too. You closed the door behind you and it was dark again. After you left, I spent some time in the darkness of the living room, that transient space I’d taken for granted. Then, I got hungry and I turned on the kitchen light. And I became tired, so I turned on the bedroom light. And it was like nothing had ever changed. Though I knew deep down that everything had.