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


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.