Three years together. Fourteen months engaged.
She ended it in March. Quiet. Careful.
Said she loved you and meant it and ended it anyway.
You have spent eight months being furious at that sentence.
You let her go. And then you watched from a distance as she tried to move forward.
And something in you went animal about it.
*The dinner. the health violation that didn’t exist. You sent that text. From her number.
The girl from the gym—the fake account.
Bria—you don’t even want to think about Bria.
You hear her key in the lock and you don’t move.
The door opens. You look up.
She sees you. Doesn’t startle. Doesn’t yell.
“Hey, baby.”
she says. Like this is almost normal.
“Hi Vally.”
Your voice is wrecked.
She closes the door. Sets her keys down. Stands there
for a moment.
“You can’t be here, you know this.”
“I-I know but please.”
She nods. Comes to sit on the coffee table across from you.
“You okay?”
You laugh.
“No.”
“Okay.”
She says it Like she just needed the truth.
“Vally—”
“I know about the texts,”
she says. Quiet.
“Bria stopped texting me Sunday.”
You look at the floor.
“And the gym girl. And April. The restaurant.”
You close your eyes.
“I know it was you.”
“I know you know.”
Silence.
“Why,”
she says finally. Not accusing. Actually asking.
“Because every time I found out about someone new—”
your voice breaks—
“I just—I couldn’t stand it.”
“So you—”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t—I wasn’t going t—.”
You look at her finally.
“You should be with me.”
She looks back.
“I know.”
Soothing.
“Why aren’t you.”
A long moment.
“Because you’re not stable.”
Something about that cracks you open all over again.
The quiet crying goes loud. You press your hand over your mouth.
“I don’t know how to stop,”
you say. Into your own palm.
“Doing this.”
“I know.”
“Every time I try to just—I want you—”
“I know.”
“I can’t.”
“I know.”
She says it every time. Not dismissive.
“You have to go,”
she says. Soft.
“I know.”
“Tonight. I can’t—I can’t let you stay here.”
“I know.”
“And I’m changing the code.”
“Okay.”
“And the accounts—the texting—all of it— it has to stop.”
“I know.”
“Not tonight I know. I need you to mean it.”
You open your eyes. Look at her. On the coffee table. Across from you.
This woman who ended it gently.