Beneath Ceilings

Part I: Nijah

The warmth of his morning breath has always made me uncomfortable.

   “This is why I never want to stay over,”

I thought as I attempted to Houdini myself from under his arm. I gently sat up and glanced over at my phone, it’s 5:42 in the morning and sneaking out before the sun has been an unwelcomed pattern of mine. I hear him begin to untangle himself from under the sheets as I pretend not to notice.

   “You don’t always have to do this,”

He speaks. His voice faint, but direct enough for me to have to acknowledge. He was a nice enough guy, you know, the kind your mother prays for. Good job, kind spirit, and ambitious, the type to ask about your day, and actually listen. He was a gentleman, just not my gentleman. I leaned in to give him a reassuring kiss, because words at this point seemed like navigating through a minefield of uncharted emotions. But he accepts my silence, and I his patience. He reaches for his shirt as he grunts and groans like a middle-aged man; it makes me smile. He’s always been on the sillier side, and he was a charming shift in my life, maybe that’s why I’ve entertained this space for so long.

   “Aiight…. C’mon, I’ll walk you to your car,”

He says as he begins to pull his shirt over his head.

   Wait, I say placing my hand on his chest, interrupting his routine.

   “You don’t have to”

But before I could finish my sentence, he pulls me over and softly kisses me on my forehead, then nose, then lips. He brushes away a few locs from my face, as he lightly caresses my cheeks. I collapse into his hand, and he looks at me, softly, as if for the last time. I say no more.

He rolls out of bed and my eyes follow his silhouette to the bathroom in the corner of the room. He lightly pushes the door closed behind him, creating a thin pathway of light, from him to I. I quietly watch, as he splashes his face with water and takes a gaze at himself in the mirror. I dare not try to read his mind, but the thought provokes me. Why are humans so obsessed with the minds of others? Why do we tether ourselves to foreign emotions, just to carry them as our own burden? Society has a way of making you feel like you missed out on something you never wanted in the first place. As I sit, I wonder, is this where I am in life? Chasing the desires of others?

   “Babe!” As he abruptly calls out from the bathroom doorway, my thoughts scatter like dust in the wind.

   “I’m sorry, what where you saying?

He stands in silence for a moment, deciding on which response would best fit the situation. I can tell he’s concerned about me, a custom of his I’ve grown to tolerate. Still, I stay quiet, seated on the corner of his bed, waiting for him to speak his truth, because I have not yet found mine. But instead, his face softens as he extends his arm in my direction and lets out a forgiving sigh. I tease him with a playful smirk which grants him entrance into my domain, hoping he accepts my invitation. Though It’s hard not to wonder if he ever keeps track of the absence of sound. I’ve had to learn multiple languages over time, often without words. Communicating through touch when speech becomes too difficult.

   “Come here," He calmly says with his arm still extended, confidently knowing I’ve never needed much encouragement when it came to his embrace. I allow myself to crumble into his chest as he fastens me with his arms. I can feel the warmth of his body blanket me like a shield of protection. He tenderly tugs at my chin, slightly tilting my head to see what may be hiding behind my eyes. But I’m always careful not to reveal too much, because my truths will inevitably become his burdens. An unwanted gift from the people you cherish most.

   “What do you need from me,” he softly whispers.

   “To exist,” I replied.

It was the only answer I had to give, but I knew he was worth more, and so did he. He throws on his beanie and reaches for my jacket hanging off an antique clothing rack that should’ve been thrown out ages ago. He's always been sentimental like that, holding on to things much longer then intended; Like me. He then drapes me with my jacket, and hands me my bag of clothes that was sitting above an empty drawer he cleaned out for me last month.

   “No pressure. If it feels right, it’s yours,”

he once said with a trace of optimism lingering in his voice. But my feet drag with anticipation of revealing all elements of myself. Fear of being misunderstood outside of our understanding. He grabs his keys in one hand, and I firmly grab the other. While resting my head on his shoulder I think about how time seems to move slower here. Or is it anywhere we’re together? I ponder for a second, temporarily occupying two worlds. Deciding on which scenario I’ll mentally escape to. He proceeds to open the front door; the cool morning air subtly seep in and rolls across my face. The leaves on his front porch rides the breeze, twisting and twirling with pieces of the earth. We step out into the uncertainty of the day, guided by the streetlights as we casually stroll through the faintly placed fog. Distant sounds of life circulate between us, breaking the silence gifted from the night before. So, we follow shortly after, quietly whispering at the mundane as we move through time.

We approach our destination, and as he begins to open my car door, with the extension of his other arm, he pulls me in for one last hug goodbye.

   “Same time next week?”

“Of course,” I say as I gift him a kiss on the cheek, and a smile I wasn’t sure was meant for him. I watch as he walks back to the curbside, then back into the darkness in which we came. I sit for a moment and allow my mind to aimlessly roam about like a curious child. I captured the sun’s arrival in my rear view, and she indicates it’s time to go. So, I let my window down, encouraging the breeze to dance with my hair, and began adjusting the volume on the stereo, while I listen to the stories told by Kendrick.