24 Hours

Goodbye. The hardest word to ever have escaped my lips. It is so simple. Just two syllables. Two syllables to break two hearts.

My eyes followed him as he dragged himself around the kitchen, feet creating friction on the lino beneath him. Breakfast; the most important meal of the day, they say. The very thought of swallowing made me sick to my stomach, but still he was boiling water for tea, grilling bread for toast, cracking eggs into the pan. The sound of sizzling and the smell of smoke filled my senses, and I allowed myself a moment to close my eyes and regain my composure. He had never made me breakfast before. A tiny fact, but it seemed noteworthy, significant. Is this how it ends? With eggs and awkward silence?

I heard him clear his throat, and spun around on my chair to face him, wanting him to speak, willing him to speak. Say something. Anything. His mouth hung slightly open for several seconds, before he shook his head and turned back towards the stove, tending to the eggs as they sizzled unceremoniously in the frying pan.

Three cheers for three years. Three years I had known this man. Three years I had loved him.

I caught a quick glimpse of him, biting my lips to prevent words falling from them. Words that I would only regret. Words that I didn’t want to be true. Even with his back to me, he was wonderful. His hair so dark and messy from a sleepless night; the skin of his arms illustrated with a thousand images, all of which I could recite by heart. Last night, as we lay awake in his bed, I had traced each and every one with my fingertips, as he chuckled and smirked beside me. I was happy then. Why can’t I be happy now? Twelve hours of happiness will not last me a lifetime.

Last night had been our first and last together. We had talked for hours, our conversations interrupted by short, sporadic bouts of sleep or kissing. Once I had woken to find his arms around my waist. Why was this wrong? Why can’t we just be? As soon as I stirred, I felt him wake, and smoothly retract his limbs from my frame, not stopping to apologise. He didn’t want to. I didn’t want him to. Countless times I found myself staring at the world atlas on his wall; bold and large and imposing. With the light of 4am streaming through the thin fabric of the curtains, I could just about make out every country. They were all there; Afghanistan to Zimbabwe. I considered which would be the most viable to elope to. Possibly Portugal. Paraguay, perhaps. Malawi, maybe. Somewhere we could not be found.

I knew in my bones that it was all wrong, from the moment our eyes met. I should have known we would never be “just friends.” The chemistry had been there all along. The play-fights, the heated debates, the glances that lingered for just a fraction of a second too long. This was a friction I had never experienced before.

All I contemplated last night, as I stared at the atlas occupying his wall, was running away with Russell and never looking back. Where could we go? Where would be the last place they would think to look?

As I sat at his kitchen table, my fingernail mindlessly scraping off a section of wood, I let out a disheartened sigh, and squinted into the sunshine outside of the window. It was a bright day; the sky was blue and content and the sun bore down across our great city with ease. I felt neither content nor at ease. I felt tense, panicked, trapped, scared. Fearing, or rather knowing, that the worst was to come.

He placed a mug on the table in front of me, our fingers grazing for a fleeting moment as I reached for it. I felt the cool metal of that ring press against my skin and it made me want to cry. An awkward smile was shared, before he turned to focus on the eggs. The damned eggs. The eggs that would ruin us.

I bit my lip again, letting my teeth sink far down into the flesh. Let the pain overwhelm you, Imogen. Focus on the pain.

“Are you okay, Imogen?” His face was turned into a frown as he placed a plate of toast and eggs before me, and I found myself flushing hot red.

“Fine,” I whispered, withdrawing my teeth and leaving behind deep impressions and pinpricks of blood, and the metallic taste that so humbly accompanied its presence. He seemed unconvinced, but did not press the matter, instead beginning to have at his own breakfast.

The way the orange yolks bled onto the toast almost made my stomach churn. Somewhere in there was a metaphor, I’m sure, but I couldn’t muster the energy to form it myself. So I just stared down at the food before me, and then back up towards Russell’s perturbed face.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, swallowing his mouthful; his beautiful face a picture of bewilderment. “Did I overdo the eggs?”

“It’s not about the eggs,” I breathed, leaning back in my chair. “It’s never been about the eggs.”

It made little sense, but he seemed to understand me anyway. And that’s why I fell in love with him. He understood me nobody ever had. Nobody else even came close. He knew what I liked and what I disliked. He knew how to push my buttons. He knew exactly what to say, all the time. He could manipulate me in the most wonderful of ways.

“Let’s just go somewhere,” he said, as if it were the simplest thing in the world, the most obvious solution to the problem we faced.

“Where?” I could hardly believe I was entertaining the thought. We both knew it was fanciful at best. Life is not that easy. Nothing ever is.

“I don’t know.” He paused, and laid his cutlery to rest at the sides of his plate. “Thailand.”

I scoffed at the thought, and took a sip of my tea. It was perfect, of course. It had to be. Everything was fucking perfect. “It’s not that simple, Russell. Grow the fuck up. There’s no running away from this. You can’t just expect to cheat on your wife and fuck off to Asia like nothing ever happened.” My tone was sombre, but firm. When I risked a glance across at him, he was nodding. He looked almost hurt, as if the true magnitude of our actions had only just become apparent.

“I know.” And then softer; “I know.” He paused for a long while, picking aimlessly at the remaining food on his plate. Love can do all sorts. Appetite restriction seemed to be a heavy feature. Perhaps we should all try the love diet. Lose two pounds and the will to live after just one week. He looked up at me again, eyes filled with tears and sadness. I had never seen him cry before. Fuck. Just one look and I felt the hot pinpricks rise behind my own sockets. “But just imagine what we could be. Imagine, Imogen.” This wordplay rolled off his tongue just as “I love you,” had done so only hours before.

Love. Gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, head-spinning love. Complicated love. Hurtful love. Overwhelming love and undeniable love. There was not a doubt in my mind that I was in love with Russell. I loved everything about him. I loved the way his hair fell into his eyes and I loved how soft it always felt when it tickled the back of my neck. I loved his hazel eyes, ever-changing in ratio of green to brown, but always warm. I loved his rough fingertips and I loved the way I shivered with anticipation every time they brushed against my skin. But most of all, I loved the way he challenged me. I loved the way he made me think twice about my own opinions. I loved that he didn’t just agree with me for an easy life, like everybody else does.

A tiny whimper bubbled out of me, and I raised a hand to my mouth as warm tears began to fall from my eyes, sliding callously down my face and dropping onto the table below. Telltale stains. Tiny, telltale water stains in the wood.

Far too much, for a Thursday morning. Far, far too much. I had to close my eyes and press my palms flat against my ears in a vain attempt to drown out the thoughts and the emotions swimming around between them. Far too much, Imogen!

Soon I felt familiar fingers on my chin, and familiar lips on my forehead. I opened my eyes only for a fraction of a second before he brought his mouth crashing softly down over mine, leaving me breathless, senseless and lost as I succumbed to him. A crash echoed around the room, but I wasn’t sure if it was literal or metaphorical. Breakfast was forgotten in an instant, sustenance giving way to raw desire as I was lifted from my chair, my legs seeming to wrap themselves around his waist as he pulled me up with ease, like I was weightless in his arms, our lips not once breaking contact. My arms hung desperately around his neck as I clutched at him, the hot salty tears mingling into our kisses.

It’s wrong. It’s wrong wrong wrong. He is your best friend’s husband. Husband, for fuck’s sake. This is treason.

A hundred more of these sorts of thoughts flooded my mind, but all of them were easily silenced by the feel of Russell’s hair as I ran my fingers through it, or the smell of soap and blueberries that clung to him; his signature scent.

Finally, we had to part, and I pursed my lips together as I gazed up into the eyes of deepest hazel. Eyes of wonder and love. “It’s all too difficult,” I sighed, letting my arms fall against my sides and my head rest into his chest. I could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeats beneath my ear. Reliable and predictable; both traits that neither one of us could ever master regarding the aspects of our own lives. We were liars and cheaters. Terrible people; dishonest and greedy and selfish, allowing our own feelings and desires to prevail over all else. There was a poor woman at the other end of town, sleeping in an empty bed, whom we both loved very much. But we didn’t love her like we loved each other. We’d never loved anybody like we loved each other, and we never would again.

A brushing of fingertips against soft cheeks, a breath caught in the throat like vomit, a realisation neither one of us cared to mention. “This is it, isn’t it?” he breathed, kissing the top of my head lightly, pulling me closer into him. I nodded, blinking back a new wave of emotion. I couldn’t let the tears fall this time. I just couldn’t.

And I couldn’t see Russell again, because it would hurt too much. And Catherine would never know. They would have beautiful babies and live happily ever after and so on. And I would be alone again.

“Fuck.” I hadn’t meant to let it out, but there it hung, in the air like a bad smell. Just a word. A single word that had to change everything. Because this word told Russell what I never could; that the thought of leaving him was unbearable, that my life was in ruins without him, that I didn’t want him to be with Catherine, I wanted him to be with me. I wanted my own happily ever after. This one word spoke volumes; a story of my life across the pages of my mind. It’s all a mess. “I don’t want this to be it,” I managed to choke out.

“Me neither,” he replied, without hesitation, entwining his fingers in mine. “So let’s run away.” I let out a shrewd, pained laugh and glanced up at him. “I’m serious.” Are you? He certainly looked serious. In fact, I had never seen him looking so serious. “Forget Catherine. Run away with me. We can go anywhere in the world. Beijing? Nebraska? Istanbul?” His words were rushed; his delirious mind running away with him, his hazel eyes glistening in the glow of the morning sun as they frantically scanned my face for expression, of which I had none to offer.

“Russell, I-” My voice was weak, weary and dishevelled. I wanted more than anything to agree with his crazy scheme and board the first flight to Azerbaijan but it was impossible. Wasn’t it? What about my best friend? My family? My job?

“You what, Imogen?” My silence said it all. I nothing. I had nothing to say. Russell’s face curved into a gut-wrenching smile that I could not possibly conceive denying. “Imogen. Imagine.”

I closed my eyes. I imagined. I imagined running away with Russell and never looking back. I imagined long, hot summers on the beach and long, cold winters underneath blankets. I imagined exchanging heartfelt vows in a tiny chapel where nobody knew our names. I imagined our first child, and our second and third. I imagined happiness.

But that’s all it was. Imagination.

We are going round and round in endless circles.

My life is not a romance movie. My life is real, and I have to live this shit, and I have to face Catherine and my parents and my friends and their accusing eyes. The answers are never as simple as running away and starting again. True love, alas, does not conquer all.

“We can’t.” It was barely louder than a whisper, almost inaudible over my pounding heartbeat. But there it was. Finality. I allowed myself to wrap my arms around him one last time, breathing him in, savouring him. His softness and his soapy smell and his hot breath tickling my neck. "You're married. You're married to my best friend. She loves you, and she needs you. More than I do. We can't keep doing this, Russell." I sighed as our bodies separated. "This is it. This is..." Just say it. “Goodbye.”

Two syllables to break two hearts. He let out a long, exasperated sigh and I choked a little, closing my eyes just for a moment, just to make sure this was actually happening and not some terrible dream. Where was my fairytale ending? Where was my pumpkin carriage and fairy godmother and Prince Charming? Where was my happily ever after?

It ended, appropriately enough, at a crossroads. My path was straight ahead, and his was to the right. No more was said. Just a casual hug, and a “see you later,” as we went our separate ways. And of course, we would see each other later, eventually. We have the same friends. We run in the same circles. We would meet again at a wedding, or a funeral, or Catherine's birthday in September. And we would pretend it was all okay because we've been doing it for years now.

But of course, it isn't okay. It's actually terrible, because I found my soulmate and he was already married to my best friend. And I knew it would never end well for me, but I fell in love anyway.

Love. Soul-destroying, brain-swelling, heart-stopping love. Sick-to-the-stomach love. Love is just a word, when you really think about it. Unsaid words and meaningless words and beautiful words; they are all just words in the end. Bleeding into one, just like the eggs and the toast.