Past

Past
PAST

INT: A BEDROOM.

Ellen is writing(ˈrīdiNG) in a notebook. Whether it is a letter(ˈledər) or a journal(ˈjərnl) entry(ˈentrē) is unclear.

ELLEN

I didn’t miss any one thing about you today. It was just a general(ˈjenərəl) sort of bad feeling. I woke up| and it was suddenly September, 2010. Not our anniversary(ˌanəˈvərsərē) or anything, just that morning we woke up after a thunderstorm(ˈTHəndərˌstôrm)| and the whole room was awash(əˈwäSH,əˈwôSH) in light |as yellow as butter(ˈbətər). We didn’t even have a bedframe then, just a blowup(ˈblōˌəp) mattress(ˈmatrəs) on the floor. The air was still warm| and humid(ˈ(h)yo͞omid) as anything, so your arm| was inches from my bare(be(ə)r) shoulder, almost touching me, but not quite(kwīt). I didn’t know then| that it was possible to be without you.

I don’t miss those days. Kind of wish I did, if I’m being honest(ˈänəst). I live them| every day instead. Just over| and over again| and I wake up and it isn’t today anymore. Instead| I’m living inside small moments| that end too soon| and then replay themselves. Like the last time| I watched you walk to your car with your dark hair starting to curl(kərl) under that ridiculous(riˈdikyələs) linen(ˈlinin) hat you loved. I wish you had turned around. I wish I’d asked you to.

People are wrong| when they say that you can’t fix(fiks) the past, that you can only change today. I can’t do anything about the fact that these days I open my eyes and I’m cold| and alone under opaque(ōˈpāk) skies. But that memory…sometimes now| I can wake up, and in my mind| the light is still yellow, the blowup mattress dangerously deflated(dəˈflāt) underneath(ˌəndərˈnēTH) me, and the air humid(ˈ(h)yo͞oməd) as anything, but your arm is around me this time, warm against my skin.

https://www.instantmonologues.com/preview/Past