I watched her packing her clothes in boxes, feeling the emptiness spread through my stomach. She wasn’t (and isn’t) an awful person, and neither was I, but there we were, both feeling awful, together.
I gave her a hug. I didn’t know what else to do, and while I hugged her I could feel a wetness growing on my shoulder where her tears were being absorbed. I couldn’t see it. I didn’t want to see it. I just felt it, so I hugged her tighter. Maybe if I hugged her hard enough I could squeeze out her hurt, push out the pain for which I felt responsible. She wasn’t a bad person, and neither was I, it’s just that we weren’t great together, at least not in the day to day grind, the grind that makes or breaks a relationship. We’re both stubborn, though, and there was (and is) love there, so maybe we kept it together through the sheer force of our collective will, at least until we couldn’t any more. At least until the pain of staying together was going to be worse than the pain of being apart. At least until then.
So what of the promises made on a Mexican beach three years before this night, this night of packing things? What happened to those professed desires to be together until death? The beautiful poetry of love? It seemed those promises were now floating around our broken household, looking for someone made of stronger stuff onto whom they could attach themselves and try again. Maybe the next people would be the ones, the ones who would make it. Not she or me, though. Not us.
I couldn’t make it right. I knew that. Asking her not to go wasn’t going to solve anything. In fact it would make it worse. To once again try to force our square pegs into round holes wasn’t going to work in the long run. Yes, if I relented and she agreed to stay we might be happy for a while. We might be happy for a few weeks, maybe even a few months. Maybe even another year. But sooner or later we would again learn the obvious, that there was no way to force the square peg into the hole without a hammer, and that each hammer stroke, each blow meant to fix things would only do more damage. Each blow, each well-intentioned swing, was destined to do more harm than good, destined to spawn more bitterness and resentment, until we finally couldn’t stand to be around each other at all. At least this way we could remain friends. At least that’s what I told myself. It must be true, musn’t it?
Eventually I released her from the hug. I released her from the hug first and then released myself from a fleeting thought, the thought that maybe we should sleep in the same bed together, at least just this night. Maybe then we would get the good night’s sleep that had eluded us the past two weeks. I released both at the same time because I couldn’t hug her forever, I couldn’t hold her forever, and because the fleeting thought, if it became actual action, would do nothing but hurt us more. We would not sleep, and then in the morning we would try to smile at each other, knowing we had just hammered another nail into the coffin. So I released them both, one before the other. Upon her release she went about packing another box, trying to hide her tears while I tried to hide mine and, stupidly, asking her if there was anything I could do to help. There was nothing I could do to help. Only time was going to help. I knew that.
I had told her, on a day in the past two weeks that by now seemed an age ago, that now seemed just moments ago, that we did not have to throw away our years together. I told her that we did not have to lose our history. I told her the same stories of us that were funny a year ago would still be funny a year from now, and that they could still be told, over and over again. We were allowed to tell them. We did not have to throw those way. I told her we could even create new stories, new memories. At least if we wanted to. We could create all of that if that’s what we wanted. I believed (and believe) it, too. What would stop us from creating a new relationship from the ashes of the old? What would stop us from staying in each other’s lives, keeping up with each other, knowing each other? Us, of course. Only us. I hoped it wouldn’t be us. I hoped she believed it, too.
That morning I had eaten breakfast with a friend. I had told her what had happened. She told me, “Who we have loved we will always love.” She was trying to comfort me, for sure. She was trying to tell me I was not throwing something away, that some version of what I felt for the woman who was now packing boxes and getting ready to leave would always be there. I thought about those words before turning and leaving the room. There was nothing left for me to do. I did not want to pack the boxes. I did not want to have a hand in what was happening in front of me, at least not any more than I had already.
A few days more and she and the boxes would be gone, and with them some part of me that I would never recover, some part of me hidden in one of those boxes. It’s like that, isn’t it? The people who leave, once you’ve loved them, take a little piece of you with them, a little piece you may never see again, although you’ll want to. You’ll want to see it because if you don’t it means you don’t matter to them anymore. I hoped (and hope) this never comes to that. With luck perhaps we will always know each other, that there will be laughter, and more moments worth remembering. At least that’s what I hoped (and hope) for. At least that.