ONA Teško je biti onaj koji ostaje.
Teško mi je svaki put kada te ispračam, kada te gledam kako odlaziš, a sasvim sam svjesna da nije moja sudbina da idem s tobom, nego da ostanem, nastavim sa svojim životom, nestrpljivo isčekujući tvoj povratak. Ostanu mi samo uspomene na tvoje dodire, na zadnji poljubac koji si utisnuo na moje usne. Ostaje mi tvoj miris na jastucima, davno ishlapio, ali osjećam njegovu prisutnost, osjećam da si ti bio tu. I to me drži na životu. Moraš znati da sam se osječala vrlo usamljenom. Nije me imao tko zagriliti dok sam plakala zato što te nema. Nije me imao tko poljubiti da ublaži bol. A život je i dalje tekao. I s vremenom sam se morala sa svime pomiriti i nastaviti pratiti život. Morala sam. Ne, nisam te zaboravila, ni malo. Samo sam se natjerala da živim bez tebe. I sada je to problem. Da, primjetio si tu moju promjenu. Primjetio si da mi je trebalo vremena da se opet priviknem da si se vratio, pa da ponovno odlaziš. Nisam te zato prestala voljeti, ali morala sam to zbog sebe. No shvatio si. Shvatio si da nisi mogao otići bez ikakvih posljedica. Saslušao si me i nisi se uvrijedio. Nisi, nisi. Odlučio si se boriti. Odlučio si se meni vratiti. Danas si me posebno zadivio. Uvijek mi govoriš lijepe stvari, ali ove danas su me posebno dirnule. Rekao si da me više ne želiš ostaviti samu, da to za nas nije dovoljno. Doći češ u Zagreb. Meni. Samo meni.
Teško je biti onaj koji ostaje, no čekati tebe uvijek vrijedi.
ON Teško je biti onaj koji odlazi.
Teško mi je što te ostavljam samu, uplakanu. Teško mi je što ti ne mogu obrisati suze, što znam da sam ja kriv za tvoju tugu. Ne bih otišao, ali moram. Oboje imamo svoje obveze zbog kojih ne možemo biti stalno zajedno. I zato ja odlazim. A ti me čekaš. Ti. Uplakana i tužna kada se ne čujemo. Sretna i uvijek nasmijana kada te nazovem. Strpljivo me čekaš. A meni fali što ne mogu zaspati pored tebe, što ne mogu slušati kako toneš u san u mom naručju. Strah me je da češ me prestati voljeti, da češ me zaboraviti. Strah me je da me više nečeš trebati. Zato se vračam tebi, zato dolazim kada god mogu. A zato uskoro i ostajem.
Teško je biti onaj koji odlazi, ali vrijedi se tebi vratiti.
Audrey Niffenegger: The Time Traveler's Wife
CLARE: It's hard being left behind. I wait for Henry, not knowing where he is, wondering if he's okay. It's hard to be the one who stays. I keep myself busy. Time goes faster that way.
I go to sleep alone, and wake up alone. I take walks. I work until I'm tired. I watch the wind play with the trash that's been under the snow all winter. Everything seems simple until you think about it. Why is love intensified by absence?
Long ago, men went to sea, and women waited for them, standing on the edge of the water, scanning the horizon for the tiny ship. Now I wait for Henry. He vanishes unwillingly, without warning. I wait for him. Each moment that I wait feels like a year, an eternity. Each moment is as slow and transparent as glass. Through each moment I can see infinite moments lined up, waiting. Why has he gone where I cannot follow?
HENRY: How does it feel? How does it feel? Sometimes it feels as though your attention has wandered for just an instant. Then, with a start, you realize that the book you were holding, the red plaid cotton shirt with white buttons, the favorite black jeans and the maroon socks with an almost-hole in one heel, the living room, the about-to-whistle tea kettle in the kitchen: all of these have vanished.
It's ironic, really. All my pleasures are homey ones: armchair splendor, the sedate excitements of domesticity. All I ask for are humble delights. A mystery novel in bed, the smell of Clare's long red-gold hair damp from washing, a postcard from a friend on vacation, cream dispersing into coffee, the softness of the skin under Clare's breasts, the symmetry of grocery bags sitting on the kitchen counter waiting to be unpacked.
And Clare, always Clare. Clare in the morning, sleepy and crumple-faced. Clare with her arms plunging into the papermaking vat, pulling up the mold and shaking it so, and so, to meld the fibers. Clare reading, with her hair hanging over the back of the chair, massaging balm into her cracked red hands before bed. Clare's low voice is in my ear often.
I hate to be where she is not, when she is not. And yet, I am always going, and she can't follow.