“You think this has been easy on me?” His voice, loud and booming, knocks me back and shuts me up. “I came here because I wasn’t allowed to be on my own. You offered your home to me knowing what was wrong with me and now you’re going to hold that against me?” His fists clench at his side so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Do you know what it’s like to know you’re supposed to love someone, but you can’t remember who they fucking are?”
Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I’ve thought about how difficult things must be on him every single day, but I’ve never said anything for fear of upsetting him, for making him feel less than adequate.
Leaving me to my tears, he storms out of the kitchen and down to what’s become his room in an apartment I’d hoped would only ever have an our room.
Cursing myself for being some kind of hopeful asshole, I wish I had never opened my mouth to invite him here. I should have let him and his parents sort it out. He could have gone to his therapy sessions on his own, met up with Ian a few times, figured his new life out on his own. But instead, I let my love for him complicate things. My need to keep our past alive has gotten in the way of his future. And seeing him so broken and angry, so pissed off and furious because of my own selfishness, I can’t help but hate myself.
I won’t deny I still love him, but maybe I love who he used to be too much to make room for who he is now.
And the very harsh reality that he no longer has the same feelings for me as he used to is crashing all around me.
With my heart in my stomach, I walk to his room, feeling as if I’m walking into the center of a black hole. Lightly tapping on the door opens it, and I catch a glimpse of him sitting on the edge of his bed. With his elbows resting on his thighs, he’s cupping his head in hands. His shoulders sag, weighed down by the heaviness of everything threatening to consume him.
“Maybe you should move out,” I suggest, walking into the room.
He turns his head to me, tears shining in his dark brown eyes. “I’ll be out by the time you get home tomorrow.”
Nodding, I turn and walk out, before my heart crashes to the floor, breaking in half at my feet.
“You look like shit,” Tim notices as I walk into the classroom the next morning.
“Yeah, I know,” I agree, not even bothering to check my appearance. As I was getting dressed, my eyes were too puffy to even see what clothes I was picking out. For all I know, I could have left the house wearing a brown shoe and a black one. Luckily that didn’t happen. My pants, however, are the furthest thing from freshly pressed. And I’m pretty sure I unrolled my shirt from a ball in the bottom of the closet before pulling it over my head.
Attire was not my main priority this morning.
Breathing was.
And it turns out that’s a rather difficult task when your heart stops functioning.
He’s going to be gone when I get home. And I don’t know when I’ll see him again. Or even if I will ever again.
“Wanna talk about it?” Tim asks, walking over to my desk where I’m currently sorting through some papers I was supposed to have graded already.
“No,” I snap, immediately regretful of my tone. “Sorry. It’s just . . .” Cue the damn tears. They haven’t stopped since I curled up in a ball last night. I have a feeling they’re not going to stop any time soon. Centering myself with a few deep breaths, I choke out, “David and I broke up. At least, well, you can’t really break up with someone you’re not even with. But he’s moving out. We had a fight and I said it would be best for him to leave. And he agreed.”
“Oh, Grace,” Tim soothes, pity filling his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Squatting in front of me as I hold my head in my hands, he runs his hand over my upper arm. “But maybe it’s better this way.”
His suggestion makes my stomach roil. Not because he’s happy for my pain, or because he’s looking for some kind of in into my life. Because neither of those things are true.
No, the reason his words sting more than a scalding burn is because he just might be right.
Meandering through the rest of my day in a fog of numbness, I manage to survive until three o’clock. The moment I’d been dreading since I woke up this morning is rearing its ugly head.
Sure, I could call Jade and head into the city for the weekend. I’m sure a few bottles of wine would help me forget.
But then I’d wake up again. And the pillows on my bed would still smell like David. He would still be in my house, not in body but in spirit.
And no matter where he is physically, he will always be a part of me.
So, deciding to face my heartache head-on, I drive home, knowing full well no one will be waiting there for me when I get there.
But what is waiting for me shocks me to my core.
Grace,
I’ve started this letter a hundred times, but I still can’t find the right words. I wish I could go back in time and stop everything that happened from happening. I wish I could remember who we were and all the reasons I loved you. But I can’t do those things.
Seems like the only thing I can do is screw things up. You’re right. In the time I was here, I never once said thank you. But I didn’t say it not because I didn’t feel it. Because I did. I felt thankful and so much more. I may not remember everything about our past, but I remember every moment of living with you. Of waking up to the sound of you getting ready for work, feeling like a little puppy waiting for you to return. Helping you cook what used to be my favorite meals will always be cherished memories for me.
I never told you this, but there were nights I’d lie in bed damn near willing my memory to return, to make the time we spent together come back to life.
But it never happened and I am so damned sorry for that.
Maybe in another life it could have worked out. Maybe in one where I wasn’t such a lost cause, I could love you the way you deserve to be loved.
Please know I’ll miss you more than I can ever put to words.
X—David
“You ready,” Dad calls out from the living room. When I walk out there, he’s holding my bags, standing by the door. “You sure you want to do this? Nothing’s ever so bad you can’t fix it with flowers and chocolate.”
“Not gonna happen, Dad,” I dismiss his attempt at help. “Let’s get out of here before Grace gets home. I don’t want to upset her any more than I already have.”
Dropping the note and her spare key on the side table by the door, I swallow down the lump in my throat before turning to walk away for good.
Because no matter how much I tell myself otherwise, I know I’m no good for her. All I’ll ever do is remind her of what should have been.
Cluing into my quiet, Dad doesn’t say anything else the rest of the ride to my apartment. Thirty minutes later when we pull into the lot, tension fills the cabin of the car. Shifting the car into park, he says, “Are you sure you don’t want to stay with your mother and me? We got a spiffy new kitchen and everything,” he jokes.
“Thanks, Dad. But really, I need to be home.” At least that’s the lie I’ll keep telling myself until some of the pain subsides.
“What about driving? You can’t take yourself anywhere,” he adds, rubbing salt in the wound.