Savannah Jaye

It had been exactly 3 days, 7 hours, 26 minutes, and 4 seconds since the last time we spoke. Since I pressed the send button on the text that was my definitive goodbye—asking you to respect my privacy and my need to heal. Telling you that I loved you and that I would always love you, but I couldn’t keep having my heart broken again and again. It wasn’t about what I wanted, but what I needed.

I was standing in Publix when I got the call that broke our vow of silence and before I even pulled the phone out of my pocket, I knew it was going to be you (you can blame it on my female intuition or your personalized ring tone). My stomach dropped, but not because I was angry that you didn’t respect my wishes. It dropped because I’m a girl, and at their core girls really just want to be pursued and chased after. My stomach dropped like an anchor and butterflies exploded throughout because I knew you were running after me, that our love had won out. You were calling to apologize and tell me that we could fix all of this. And in the .672 seconds it took me to whip out my phone and see your name, I released a breath of relief that I had been holding for days because I knew things were going to finally be okay again. There was hope and light at the end of this tunnel. I always said you were a keeper, after all.

Covering the speaker, I turned to my friend and mouthed, “It’s him.” before answering your call. “Heyy,” I said in the most calm-yet-alluring voice I could manage despite the fact that my heart was pounding out of my chest from nerves and excitement and elation. At first I could just make out the distorted sound of conversations in the background, but then I faintly began to hear the familiar voice of someone ordering from Waffle House, “Yeah, I’d like the All Star. Scrambled eggs with cheese. Bacon, but cooked lightly—I hate it burnt. The raisin toast. And I’d like my hashbrowns scattered, covered, peppered, and diced. Oh, and just a little crispy. Thanks.” I say hello again, this time a little louder but also with a little bit more confusion in my voice. It was met with the sound of ruffling fabric, a whispered “Oh, shit.”, and a click before the silence greeted me on the other end.

You had pocket dialed me.

And that night would be the second time in my life that I broke down and wept in a grocery store.

“They’re shouting for you,” she said with a smile.
“But I could never have done it,” he objected, “without everyone else’s help.”
“That may be true,” said Reason gravely, “but you had the courage to try; and what you can do is often simply a matter of what you will do.”

“That’s why,” said Azaz, “there was one very important thing about your quest that we couldn’t discuss until you returned.”
“I remember,” said Milo eagerly. “Tell me know.”
“It was impossible,” said the king, looking at the Mathemagician.
“Completely impossible,” said the Mathemagician looking at the king.

“Do you mean————-” stammered the bug, who suddenly felt a bit faint.
“Yes, indeed,” they repeated together, “but if we’d told you then, you might not have gone—and, as you’ve discovered, so many things are possible just as long as you don’t know they’re impossible.”

And for the remainder of the ride Milo didn’t utter a sound. 

The house with the yellow gate.

It was whispered to me as if it was the kind of secret everyone knew, but none spoke of; immediately I had flashed back to my own house: gateless and void of all yellow. I needed to know what, and more importantly who, was behind that gate—despite the fact that deep down I was confident that I already knew the answer to those questions.

The next night as I left the beach, I resolved that to find this house and its notorious gate. It was time to meet the demons that had haunted me. I wanted to confront the very being that I blamed for everything—my pain, my hurt, my brokenness—in hopes that it could somehow make me whole again. 

Though I started my journey with no real sense of direction in mind, my feet just began: slowly at first but gradually picking up the pace. And they just feet kept going: one in front of the other. And then it repeated the process. One then the other. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. After what may have been miles, but could have just as easily been a few blocks, I finally had the courage to look up.

As I stood on the sidewalk, I looked across the street. At first glance it looked just like any other normal house: a door, some windows, a mailbox. Yet I instinctively knew it wasn’t, there seemed to be something off. Maybe it was the sole bedroom light on in the top left window. The strangely familiar car in the driveway, in the strangely unfamiliar location. Or maybe it was the waist high fence that went around its tiny yard with a small, yellow gate at its edge—inviting and foreboding at the same time (as facing your fears always seems to be). Eventually I cautiously walked up to the gate, ever so slowly opening it. In only ten more steps I was at the front porch, then in five more I found myself at the welcome mat, and with just another moment the doorbell would be mine to ring.

While trying to locate each and every last strand of courage within me, I abruptly noticed voices coming from the partially opened window. Mumbles at first, but later I’d come to recognize them as lovers’ sighs. They were whispered recycled phrases, lies they had told to plenty before. Promises made that had already been broken and gifts being given to someone other than their rightful owner. I stood outside hoping and wishing that just for a moment I too could enter the house and be apart of the exchange, but alas I knew it was not my fate, for I am not a violent person nor do I have the resolve to do something against my morals, so instead I opted to turn around and exit the yellow gate knowing that it was ultimately for the best.

I took the long way home that night; I had much to think about.