It was the day before Halloween---if they even celebrate that in Canada---and she had arrived in her personal version of utopia. The leaves, the air, the unpretentious brick apartments by the university---and most importantly, the boy.
After weeks of anticipation and cheap wine, she and he were finally reunited. Her prince charming, a kaleidescope of magentic poetry, herbal remedies, classic vinyl , was at last within touching distance. They spent several surreal days together, braving rickety fire escape ladders to drink wine on a rooftop, eating dinner outside in the rain, and becoming so engrossed in late-night conversation that food and water became less than an after thought. She was in love---in a way that no one could understand. Every feeling she had ever read about since the third grade came rushing in and she felt grateful to have been born.
Then came the silence. Weeks and weeks of silence. Unthinkable, she said to herself, especially after the intensity of their shared hours. She waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually she ran out of wine and tears. She would wander through the streets of Manhattan surrounded by bleakness---there were no sounds, scents, or stimulation. It was all just gray.
This bleakness persisted for months. She wondered how a handful of perfect weekends could have possibly affected her so much. She walked through the last few years of her life, scavenging for other sources of normalcy and --gasp---maybe even happiness.
She ran into her old self a few times and was surprised to see how delighted she used to be with her life. She followed her around a bit and tried to remember what that felt like. After awhile, she followed her home, into her room, and watched her sob herself to sleep.
It was then that she realized she had never been able to find real happiness and it was all a shell.
She walked back into present times hurriedly. There was work to be done.