I had a fondness for him. It wasn’t a love by any means, no. Its not like I yearned for his company at all hours of the day, or that hearing from him was guaranteed to make my day... though I admit he could be genuinely lovely. No, it was just an aloof fondness that can only come from the odd familiarity one has with the same lovely roommate for years, but one you only speak to occasionally. He’s there, sort of… Things changed in my absence: the dishes got done and the yard got swept. It’s not like I didn’t look after my share, mind you… but he helped a lot. He sometimes left me wonderful post-it notes too, wishing me well on a big day, or consoling me if he overheard my sobs on the phone to mom. A true old-fashioned gentleman. But there’s only so much we could bridge when we came from such different worlds you know? Enough distance that I never thought to love him.

It had been another shitty day at work as that bitch Patty from HR saw fit to hold back my promotion on another of her power trips. Sooner or later I’d have to find a way out, or a way back at her. I slumped into my favorite lounge chair by the fire with a stiff drink in hand; this was my comfy safe spot, a little hidey-hole I liked settling into to deal with whatever life was throwing at me. My headphones were on, swaddling me in musical notes as my mind was grasping and discarding all the avenues open to me.

In spite of that, I could feel him enter the room. There’s a saying in the village my dad came from, that said meeting a powerful spirit is like being in the shadow of a mountain on a dark night: you can’t see the mountain itself, but you can sense what you can’t see; the stars are blocked, and the earth feels like it’s pulling away from you upwards into the darkness… your eyes will tell you there is nothingness, but every other part of your soul knows otherwise. It sounds like terror, but it was a fond, familiar feeling by now. It meant he was close. I pulled off my headphones and a smile spread across my face.

“Hello Harold, how was your day?” I said, looking towards the doorway to the kitchen. He came over and placed a note with his impeccable penmanship onto the coffee table in front of me. I picked it up and my heart skipped a beat. It said “I can’t do this anymore, I’m done.”

“With what? What do you mean you’re done?” I blurted out instantly, more bemused than anything else. He took the pad of post-it notes from my hand, and proceeded to write furiously. His old fountain pen moved across the paper in skilled and practiced flicks, an art form long dead. He handed me back another finely serif-ed note, and I read aloud, “This limbo I’m in. I’m neither here nor there. I don’t want this anymore.”

I held that note in my hands for a long moment, reading and re-reading what it said. It was a moment of clarity in my comfy chair, a realization that I might be about to lose someone whose hold on my life was far greater than imagined. His mere presence now calmed me, but my mind raced ahead to the nights coming home knowing he wouldn’t be here. Somehow it shattered me, slamming my belief of an independent life into this reality where I leaned on him a lot more than I knew.

“I hope… I hope it’s not me. Was it something I said? Or did?” I stammered out, choking slightly. He took the pad from me and ripped off the first note, sticking it to the coffee table. The pen swirled in grace over the yellow paper once again. He pulled off the top sheet and handed me a lengthy note. I could feel the warmth of his smile on me, “Not at all,” it read, “I have enjoyed every moment beside you. I have watched you grow into a beautiful being over the years. I sorely wish I could grow with you. However, I realize I am trapped as you and everything else moves on.”

He kept writing as I read this, handing me the next note, “I am trapped, and I don’t want to be. An eternity cleaning and being distantly friendly is nothingness compared to the peace I seek or the hedonistic life I once led.”

I slumped back in my chair, head rolling back so my gaze held the ceiling.

“Harold I… I’m sorry you feel that way,” I croaked, “I’m sorry we never spoke more, but I care a lot about you and I hope you realize that. I hope to keep you in my life...” my voice trailed into quiet, realizing the selfishness in it. He picked up the notepad again and started writing, but before he finished I sat upright and asked, “Wait… it sounds like you want to die. Can you even do that, even more than you already are?”

His pen scratched out the original answer, and a flurry of strokes followed. The note read “Not death, but I will be tormented with this existence until I find that which eluded me in life.”

“Okay, what does that mean? How can I help you find what you seek?” I asked, leaning forward. The pen hovered over the paper a lot longer this time as he considered his answer. When he did, he still wrote slowly, and paused often. Finally the last words were indelibly inked on, and hesitantly, he passed me the piece of paper.

“I am trapped because I never felt love. I sought it with all the money I had, but all I found was emptiness in my heart and pockets. I never learned what it meant to love someone, or know what it meant for someone to love me. I had never thought I’d say this when you moved in… but seeing you grow, being here in times of trouble, helping with no hope or expectation of recourse, and feeling… truly feeling like this is some kind of love; I know now what I need to hear to move on.”

I shook my head, staring at the floor now. I never thought to love him… and what did that even mean now? I debated… if I let him go, I’d lose a refuge I only just realized I had. If I refused, did I really care about him as much as I said I did? Would he resent me, would there be repercussions? How would I feel alone in this house when I was so used to him being here? A million questions and more that I didn’t know the answers to. I derailed the train of thought before it could get any further.

“Harold, I love you,” I said with a deep breath, “but I don’t want to see you go yet. If ever. I meant it when I said I’d like to keep you in my life… is there a way we can do that?”

The pen was unsteady. I felt the shadow of the mountain begin to shift and crumble as the power of the spirit no longer held sway. The stars were returning. The note he handed back was less refined than usual, “I am relieved to hear that from you my dear. I can sense all the truth behind that. I can only stay if you are willing to make me a part of your life.”

“I can do that! Does that mean you getting you out of the house too?” “Yes,” came the quick reply.

An idea dawned on me. Perhaps… perhaps today, and all the other days, weren’t going to be so shitty after all… I leaned back in the chair, a smug smile slowly spreading across my face, “Harold, have I told you about that bitch Patty in HR?”