On missing, and being missed

Another Monday morning. You tend to get impervious to the Monday morning blues, when every day is just like the other. Neither bringing joy nor despair. I had returned from my weekend visit to Dallas last night, and now, I was rushing, trying to make it to work on time.

Grabbing a sparse breakfast of toast, I was ready to get going. As I knelt down to wear my shoes, a small box under the table caught my attention. An opened FedEx package, to be precise. Knowing that I hadn’t been expecting any, I surmised that it must have been addressed to my flatmate.

A little on him — he is someone I can tolerate. He had moved in a few weeks ago, and we mostly kept to our own selves, which is something I deeply appreciate. The only time we share in a day is when we happen to have a smoke together in the patio, or when one of us is using the microwave, and the other is waiting to heat up his dinner. Being a person who enjoyed his solitude, I liked this arrangement, and hoped that it would stay this way, for however long we were sharing quarters. His wife had stayed with him the first couple of days, helping him set things up. The extent of interaction between us had been to say hello, and bid goodbye when she left. Later, I had learned from him that they had only recently been wedded, and that he was kind of missing her.

Doing my laces, I could see that he was using it as a trash can of sorts; filling it with receipts, envelopes and the like. Still on one knee, I notice there was an inscription on the underside of the lid. Three little words, and a squiggled sketch of a heart.

I miss you!

I pause a beat, smiling at it and shaking my head. Which is when he walks in. He asks me what’s up, and I point to the box, telling him that’s nice of her. Reminding myself that I was running late, which was typical of my Monday morns, I get up and walk out. Not before I stop at the door, look back and tell him, “If it were up to me, I wouldn’t be using that to collect trash.” He gives me a look, the kind reserved for when one encounters something very weird, and knows not how to respond. Deciding not to make it any more awkward, I shut the door behind me and walk out.

In the evening, returning from work, I see that the box is not there anymore. Whether he took it to his room to keep it out of my sight, or trashed it, I could not know, nor did I want to. He might have found it crazy that I’d find such a little insignificant thing remarkable.

Easy for him to feel that way. He had someone that missed him.

I wish I could say the same.

That I had someone who missed me.

And someone that I missed.

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