It’s one of those weird moments when I walk into a room after something awful has happened, but I don’t know what.
I see a few strangers standing in the corners, glancing at each other nervously and speaking in hushed tones.
The familiar faces are nowhere to be found. But even in their absence, I can feel the tension in the pit of my stomach.
I’m not part of any clique, and I keep to myself. I’m always the last to know about anything, if I ever know about it at all.
I’ve spent my life as an oblivious outsider — my only companion is my angel.
Through trial and error, we’ve developed a seamless form of communication. Something isn’t right, I’ll think to myself. “Time to go”, he whispers in confirmation.
I used to be scared by the uncertainty: he never tells me where we’re going next, and there’s usually some lingering sadness or guilt. Often a lot. We always end up in a better place, though.
Sometimes — years later, perhaps — an unbelievable quirk in the matrix will reveal to me what actually happened. Not the surface event necessarily, but the underlying truth of it. I have insane luck in that regard.
Oh, now I get it, I tell my guy, as I tuck the wisdom in my soul.
And here I am again, standing by myself in a dark space where life has suddenly gone absent. “Time to go”, he tells me.
I don’t give it a second thought.