Title Track

I woke up the morning before, hours before he would.

He eyelids sat light on the dips and bends of his face, in set and perfect.

Three years I’d been doing this. Three years of waking to his face, eating with him, fucking him.

I’d started to sleep while he spoke; eyes open, but not hearing a thing.

“Ryan? Ryan, are you even listening?”

His saying my name woke me from the trance I’d been in since he opened his mouth.

“What?”

“Are you listening?” He frowned, nose all wrinkled in that way that used to drive me up the wall.

“Oh, no, sorry. Must have spaced out or something.”

I spent the days dreaming of the way things should be.

At nineteen, I shouldn’t have been locked into some romantic relationship.

At nineteen, I should have been doing things.

I should have been getting drunk, and going to college, and fucking a new person every night.

I shouldn’t have been shut into the box of pre-marital bliss that Brendon found so fit for us.

That feeling of high school romance, so nauseating I’m surprised I never felt the need to vomit until I bled.

I panicked.

The same face every day, forever and ever, and eventually it would be my obligation to stay, if it wasn’t already.

So I packed my bags.

He’d been asleep for hours.

Our apartment was dimly lit, the sun just peaking over the horizon, already heating the Nevada desert.

I was ready to go.

I wasn’t sure how I was going to leave, or where I would go, or when I would get there, but in my head, I was already gone.

I scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, laid it next to his head, and walked out the door without a second glance.

He deserved better than me. He really did.

I was a kid, and he was a kid, and I wanted to get out, whereas he wanted to stay that way forever.

He deserved someone who wanted forever.

I knew it would break his heart, but I’ve never met anyone who’s died of a broken heart.

If I could move on, so could he.