Fifty Two Weeks

I had to do it. I had to.

He deserves someone so much better than me. I don’t deserve him, I don’t deserve love. I had to do it, I couldn’t let him have me; I love him too much.

There is no sound apart from the ticking of the clock. It echoes through my tiny apartment.

Tick tock. You had to do it.

Tick tock. Don’t you dare miss him.

Tick tock. He’s better off without you.

I can hear someone coming down the corridor outside, the floorboards creak under every step. Is it him? No, of course it’s not him. You can’t have him. He doesn’t want you. He can’t have you. You’ll only hurt him.

Someone’s at the door, it’s him; he’s doing that same weird little knock he does every time. I don’t think he even realises he does it.

Why is he here? All I do is hurt him?

I stand up slowly from my sagging and broken armchair; my footsteps are laboured and heavy: a dead man walking.

My heart breaks slightly as I open the door. You have a five o’clock shadow and bags under your eyes.

“I need you.”

That is all you say: enough for my bones to shatter and my lungs to collapse.

“I need you.”

He can’t have me. I am terrible person, he deserves so much better. He needs to forget about me, I’ll only hurt him as much as I hurt myself.

“It’s easier for you to let me go.” I whisper.

“Easier for who? It doesn’t look like this is easier for you and it sure as hell isn’t easier for me!” He voice is husky as though he hasn’t slept.

Tears are streaming down my face and I have no idea how to stop. My blood has turned to salt and I am slowly drowning in it.

“I miss you, don’t you understand? I miss you more than I can bear to think about!”

You reach one of your tough and callused hands to cup my face and tilt it up towards you. You do it so carefully, like you always do, as if you are afraid I will shatter beneath your touch.
Your eyes are so dark, I’ve always said so; your pupils hidden and drowning in a sheet of black. I want to shy my eyes away from the sorrow on your face, the way you seem to have fallen, like a piece deep inside of you has collapsed.

“Don’t you miss me too?”

How could he ask that question? How could he possibly think I didn’t miss him? Did he think I was that fickle? Did he think I could just forget everything he’s done for me, all the tiny, little things he forgets moments after he’s done them or when he doesn’t even register them at all? Or the huge momentous changes he caused the moment he fell into my life, as though he had stolen the sun and my life was now orbiting around him and only him?

My voice comes out in a choked whisper, “I don’t think you will ever understand just how much I really miss you.”

His face moulds into exasperated relief, “Then how on earth could I let you go? Knowing that you miss me as much as I miss you?”

He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand that I need to do this. I need to do this for him; he can’t live his life with a pathetic mess trailing around after him: a disgusting parasite, entirely dependent on him. I don’t deserve him and he doesn’t deserve me and I can’t allow myself to give in.

I take a deep shuddering breath and try to gather even a small piece of strength, “I miss you. I miss you so, so much.” I squeeze my eyes shut; if I can’t see him maybe this will be easier. “But I love you more than I miss you.”

And before I can think about how much this will hurt me I push him back through the open doorway and shut the door quickly.

But I am not fast enough and I see his face far too clearly before the wood cuts us apart. His face, his eyes, his lips, and they break me apart.

And as I shatter into a thousand broken pieces I slowly slide down the door and bury my face in my arms.

I had to do it, I had to. He can’t bleed if I’m alone.

But I did not realise how inescapably, soul consumingly dark it would be. How empty I would feel inside. The door shakes slightly behind me as my body shudders with my sobs.

I lift my head from my arms when I hear a rustle next to me.

I look down to the floor and there lies a crumpled piece of paper, folded in half and poking through the crack beneath the door, my name written scruffily on the outside.
It’s his writing.

I slowly lift it from the shabby floor and gently unfold it, afraid that it will fall to ash in my hands. The writing is messy and I doubt anyone would have been able to read it unless they knew him. The pen he used was thick and black and has stained through to the other side. I’m scared of what it will say so I just stare at my name, bled through from the other side, until I catch my breath enough to read what he’s written:

“I can see right through your walls and I’ll be right here to catch you when you need me. I love you and I’m not giving up.”