7 Laurel Drive.

It doesn’t matter how many times I drive home from work, drive between my own home and new apartment, to the food store, to anywhere in the Scranton city-limits. 

7 Laurel Drive.

My destination at 9:16 PM each night lately. My mindless destination each time I’m outside of my apartment.

7 Laurel Drive.

A place that holds my heart, although I had only ever been inside of it once before. It’s inhabited by new tenants now, but my heart is encapsulated within the walls.

7 Laurel Drive.

Where my car is double parked currently. Where I sit, staring. Hoping you’d walk outside, sit in the air conditioning with me, talk about everything and anything until the wee hours of the morning. Hoping you’d invite me inside for drinks, dinner, a movie, anything at this point. To find my spot in your arms, to finally have our lips meeting again as I direly dream, wish to have again.

7 Laurel Drive.

To hear your laugh again, for you to make me laugh again. To make new jokes that only we would know, only we bring up.

7 Laurel Drive.

Having someone to make the workday go faster. Having someone to prank Dwight with, to joke about Michael’s antics with, to eat lunch with.

7 Laurel Drive.

Having a friend who doesn’t get tired of hearing me talk about you, how much I miss you.

7 Laurel Drive.

To being able to finally love you. Finally, be explicitly, conventionally yours.

But here I am, parked in front of 7 Laurel Drive, and you’re gone. Your apartment filled with strangers who change its setup. Make it so unlike you, unlike it was at your barbecue.

Parked, in front of 7 Laurel Drive as if you’d magically return. Magically teleport 143 miles northwest for the girl who broke your heart.

Parked, as if I didn’t tell you I was going to marry Roy after you poured your heart out to me. As if I dropped everything for you, like I should have.

When I drive through the suburbs to your old apartment each night to tell you that I’ve left him. To tell you that I was never going to marry him, that I only said that out of my own fear of change. My own fear of hurting Roy when I hurt you in exchange.

To tell you that I loved you, love you still. To tell you of how much denial I was in of your feelings. To tell you how I’ve felt the same for years, scared to name it as a crush and brushed it to the side for Roy’s sake. Dumbest decision of my life.

While you’re in Stamford, moving on as I sit here in my own grief over you. Moving on with someone else, someone who deserves you...

Someone who isn’t me...

My tear ducts swell up, sobbing as I turn off my blinkers and switch my gear shift to drive. Driving up the street, 7 Laurel Drive behind me at this point, toward 307 and into town.

Tears running down my face at this point, I hit every red light possible. Through the salty droplets, everything seems blurry. 

Each red light I hit, each streetlight on the pavement, all look the same at this point. They have no point, honestly, next to you.

You’re driving each car next to me, each car passing me. Every pedestrian crossing the streets or walking around the town.

Your voice, all I hear through the hustle and bustle. All I want to hear now.

I drive past that damn Rite Aid, Poor Richards, places that just remind me of you, remind me that you’re not here. My heart aching, wanting nothing but you, your touch. Your warmth, your love.

Everything screams you because I fucking love you.

And you just left me here. Left me here to finally process what you said at Casino Night. Left me to go back to work and not see your face anymore, face calling off my engagement, for you, on my own. Without my partner-in-crime to walk me through it, help me gain the confidence I need for it. I can’t stand that you left me here for Stamford. Can’t stand that you let me say that to you, and you leave without giving me time to process. Without giving me time to close the Roy chapter of my life, for you.

God, I can’t stand you. I hate you for that.

I hate you; I hate you; I hate you.

But I love you. But I still fucking love you, Jim.

Doesn’t matter how much I could hate you; it’ll never surpass how much I just love you.

My tears subside, pulling into my designated parking spot of my own, empty apartment. I place my head on my steering wheel, reeling over the feelings that hit me each night as I return home.

How long do I do this for? How long do I drown in my hurt, my sadness? How long until I stop feeling the way I do about you?

What will it take for you to realize that I feel the same way, Jim? I can. I can. I CAN.

Until you know, until you come home, I’ll drive alone past your street.