Longing For Him

Jennie

I check my watch for the umpteenth time.

8:25 p.m.

I should have been home by now.

I sigh and press my forehead against the window. I curl my hands into balls and my nails dig deep into palms leaving crescent-shaped marks. I bite the inside of my cheek and my mouth is immediately filled with the taste of copper. Blood quickly pools in my mouth and I push it beneath my tongue and leave it there, swirling my tongue through the metallic taste as my mind races.

I look out the window at the clouds beneath and I envy how peaceful they look. No regrets.

I glance at my watch again.

8:49 p.m.

The dinner party my parents have planned for me starts at nine. Everyone is waiting for me. I’m going to be late. But that’s not why I’m nervous.

All I can think about is one person.

Him. The boy I left behind.

I close my eyes. Four years have passed. The thought of seeing him again still makes my heart race. I want him to be there tonight. At the welcoming dinner. But something tells me he won’t be. Why would he? I left him.

The thought of him is enough to send the memories rushing back. Four years ago, my parents sat me down and told me I had one week. That was all the time they gave me to say goodbye to the life I had built here. They were going to send me to London to study Real Estate Finance and Investment at the London Institute of Real Estate & Finance.

This shouldn’t have come as a shock. It was always the plan. Finish high school, take a gap year. Then off to London to chase my dreams. But that was all before I met him. My plans had long changed. There was no more London. I could go to university in New York instead. I had told my parents this. Well, it seems they weren’t on board with the idea. Their lack of commentary was not silent approval but rather a loud and clear disapproval, I realised this as I stood there next to the kitchen island, my fingers curled tightly around its edge, the marble surface cold against my skin.

They would not let me throw my future away because I thought I had found love. I was too young. How many girls regretted choosing love over their future? How many gave up everything for a man, only to wish they hadn't? They said.

I fought them. I argued. I cried. I begged them to change their minds. They wouldn’t. But I knew they weren’t trying to hurt me.

I was going to tell him. Not over the phone. Not through a text. I wanted to look him in the eyes and tell him myself. The first time I saw him after my parents told me, I thought I would. I remember sitting beside him, listening to him talk about something that happened that day, while the words sat at the tip of my tongue.

'I’m leaving'. I could have said it. I should have. But then he reached for my hand, his fingers slipping between mine like they belonged there, and I lost my nerve. Not today. I’d tell him tomorrow.

The next time we met, I thought I’d do it then. I had even promised myself I would tell him before we parted. But we laughed. We talked. We made love. He kissed me goodbye, and for those few minutes, I forgot that there was an expiration date hanging over us.

I’d finally picked a day: Saturday. I remember lying in bed one night, rehearsing the words in my head.

'I’m leaving for London. I don’t want to go. I fought them. I wanted to stay. I love you. Please don’t think I’m choosing this over you.'

Most of all, I wanted to tell him I would come back.

It was on Friday morning, my mother walked into my room and told me we were leaving that afternoon. I thought I had misheard her.

“Today?” She nodded.

“The flight was moved. Your father has already taken care of everything.” For a moment I just sat there. Then I shook my head.

“No.”

My mother looked at me gently. “Sweetheart—”

“No.” I got out of bed. “I can’t leave today.”

“We don’t have a choice.”

“I haven’t said goodbye.”

She went quiet.

“Please. Just give me one more night. I’ll go tomorrow. I promise. I won’t fight you anymore. I’ll go to London. I’ll do everything you want. Just let me stay tonight.”

Her expression broke a little, but she still shook her head.

“I’m sorry.”

And suddenly everything became a blur. Suitcases. Documents. My mother’s voice reminding me to pack my passport. My father checking the time. People moving around me while I stood there feeling like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet.

I kept thinking, I haven’t told him. I reached for my phone. I was going to call him. I was going to tell him to come over. Or I would go to him. I didn’t care anymore.

But before I could, my father asked me to hand over my phone. They wanted me to focus on leaving and promised I would get it back once I settled in. I remember looking at the screen one last time. His name was right there and my finger hovered over it. Then I handed over my phone. I told myself I would call as soon as I got the chance. I would explain everything.

The last time I saw him was the day before, when I still believed I had another day. That’s the part that stays with me. Him never knowing I was leaving.

My parents didn’t return my phone. I was admitted to university almost immediately after we arrived on campus. By the time I had a new phone, a week had passed. The first week passed in a blur of registration, classes, unfamiliar faces and trying to find my footing in a new environment.

I called him immediately after I got a phone. He didn’t pick up. I called again and again. He still didn’t pick up. I called until I couldn’t bear another unanswered call. So I waited.

I’d heard through my cousin that he’d heard I’d left the country without a word. Not my version. Just the fact of it, stripped of every reason. I thought I’d give him a little time. Then I called again a million times. Left a thousand texts and ten thousand voicemails. Even actual mails. Nothing

So I waited. For him to call. To answer my texts. Then the first semester came and went. I had thought I would go home after my end-of-semester exams. I had held onto that thought like a promise. I would go back, find him, explain everything, and somehow put my life back where it had been before London had taken it from me. Then I found out I wasn't going home.

My parents had decided I needed to stay in London.

Every time I asked about coming back, there was another reason why I couldn’t. I had just started university. I needed to focus on my studies. It was too much trouble to travel back and forth.

And whenever I brought up paying for the flight myself, they shut that down too. They controlled my finances. The accounts they had set up for me, the money they gave me, even the cards I used. I couldn’t simply book a flight and leave without them knowing.

I asked them more than once.

“Can I come home for the holidays?”

“Not this time.”

“What about after my exams?”

“We’ll see.”

There was always another excuse. Another reason to wait. And eventually, I stopped asking.

They paid for my tuition. My accommodation. My flights when they wanted me to travel. But coming home was never something they were willing to pay for.

And I didn’t have the freedom to pay for it myself. At first, I told myself it wouldn’t matter. I’d finish the semester. Then I’d go home. Then the next semester came. Then another. And somehow, the months kept slipping through my fingers.

Somewhere between eight months and a year, I stopped calling. Not because I stopped loving him. That would have been easier. I stopped because I was afraid. Every time I reached for my phone, the same questions would rise before I could even dial. What if he had moved on? What if he hated me? What if he answered and told me he never wanted to hear from me again? My thumb would hover over his number. I would imagine what would happen if I pressed call. Then fear would win.

And so I studied. I made new friends. I built a life in London. And somehow, four years passed. But he never really left my mind. I thought about him every day. Sometimes it was a memory. Sometimes a song. Sometimes something as simple as seeing a couple holding hands on the street. Sometimes I would wake up and, for a brief second, forget that he was thousands of miles away. Then reality would settle in. I wondered where he was. What he was doing. Whether he ever thought about me. Whether he hated me. Whether he had forgotten me.

I look out the window again. The clouds have disappeared beneath us and the ground is getting closer. My heart lurches. For the past four years, I had imagined coming back so many times. In some versions, I was brave. In others, I had everything figured out. Sometimes I imagined walking through the arrivals hall and finding him waiting for me, and sometimes I imagined never seeing him at all.

The plane dips lower and begins its final descent. My fingers tighten around the armrest. I press my forehead against the cool window and watch the ground rush closer. My breath is now shallow and I close my eyes for a moment.

I am going to find him and I am going to make everything right. And I know exactly where to start. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous.

She went quiet.

"Please. Just give me one more night. I'll go tomorrow. I promise. I won't fight you anymore. I'll go to London. I'll do everything you want. Just let me stay tonight."

Her expression broke a little, but she still shook her head.

"I'm sorry."

And suddenly everything became a blur. Suitcases. Documents. My mother's voice reminding me to pack my passport. My father checking the time. People moving around me while I stood there feeling like the ground had disappeared beneath my feet.

I kept thinking, I haven't told him. I reached for my phone. I was going to call him. I was going to tell him to come over. Or I would go to him. I didn't care anymore.

But before I could, my father asked me to hand over my phone. They wanted me to focus on leaving and promised I would get it back once I settled in. I remember looking at the screen one last time. His name was right there and my finger hovered over it. Then I handed over my phone. I told myself I would call as soon as I got the chance. I would explain everything.

The last time I saw him was the day before, when I still believed I had another day. That's the part that stays with me. Him never knowing I was leaving.

My parents didn't return my phone. I was admitted to university almost immediately after we arrived on campus. By the time I had a new phone, a week had passed. The first week passed in a blur of registration, classes, unfamiliar faces and trying to find my footing in a new environment.

I called him immediately after I got a phone. He didn't pick up. I called again and again. He still didn't pick up. I called until I couldn't bear another unanswered call. So I waited.

I'd heard through my cousin that he'd heard I'd left the country without a word. Not my version. Just the fact of it, stripped of every reason. I thought I'd give him a little time. Then I called again a million times. Left a thousand texts and ten thousand voicemails. Even actual mails. Nothing.

So I waited. For him to call. To answer my texts. Then the first semester came and went. I had thought I would go home after my end-of-semester exams. I had held onto that thought like a promise. I would go back, find him, explain everything, and somehow put my life back where it had been before London had taken it from me. Then I found out I wasn't going home.

My parents had decided I needed to stay in London.

Every time I asked about coming back, there was another reason why I couldn't. I had just started university. I needed to focus on my studies. It was too much trouble to travel back and forth.

And whenever I brought up paying for the flight myself, they shut that down too. They controlled my finances. The accounts they had set up for me, the money they gave me, even the cards I used. I couldn't simply book a flight and leave without them knowing.

I asked them more than once.

"Can I come home for the holidays?"

"Not this time."

"What about after my exams?"

"We'll see."

There was always another excuse. Another reason to wait. And eventually, I stopped asking.

They paid for my tuition. My accommodation. My flights when they wanted me to travel. But coming home was never something they were willing to pay for.

And I didn't have the freedom to pay for it myself. At first, I told myself it wouldn't matter. I'd finish the semester. Then I'd go home. Then the next semester came. Then another. And somehow, the months kept slipping through my fingers.

Somewhere between eight months and a year, I stopped calling. Not because I stopped loving him. That would have been easier. I stopped because I was afraid. Every time I reached for my phone, the same questions would rise before I could even dial. What if he had moved on? What if he hated me? What if he answered and told me he never wanted to hear from me again? My thumb would hover over his number. I would imagine what would happen if I pressed call. Then fear would win.

And so I studied. I made new friends. I built a life in London. And somehow, four years passed. But he never really left my mind. I thought about him every day. Sometimes it was a memory. Sometimes a song. Sometimes something as simple as seeing a couple holding hands on the street. Sometimes I would wake up and, for a brief second, forget that he was thousands of miles away. Then reality would settle in. I wondered where he was. What he was doing. Whether he ever thought about me. Whether he hated me. Whether he had forgotten me.

I look out the window again. The clouds have disappeared beneath us and the ground is getting closer. My heart lurches. For the past four years, I had imagined coming back so many times. In some versions, I was brave. In others, I had everything figured out. Sometimes I imagined walking through the arrivals hall and finding him waiting for me, and sometimes I imagined never seeing him at all.

The plane dips lower and begins its final descent. My fingers tighten around the armrest. I press my forehead against the cool window and watch the ground rush closer. My breath is now shallow and I close my eyes for a moment.

I am going to find him and I am going to make everything right. And I know exactly where to start. Maybe that's why I'm so nervous.