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He's late. He's always late.
Today is our four year anniversary. It's not really that special anymore, it's just treated as a normal day now. He had to go to work, but he said he'd definitely be back to celebrate with me.
I guess that plan didn't work out for him.
Time was ticking by so slowly, it was painful. It was as if a bomb was ticking away at the seconds before impact. I sank into the sofa, curling myself into a ball as I gave him five more minutes. It's five minutes to midnight, it'd be over soon anyway. Shivering, I closed my eyes as I held onto myself, trying not to cry again. It wasn't cold in the room; it was late June and it was relatively warm inside and out.
But my entire body was freezing, devoid of any warmth and his love.
His love was all I really needed in my life, and I grew dependent on it in these last four years. The way his hair would dance in the wind, the fact that he'd always cross his arms over his chest whenever he was experiencing any emotion that he hadn't encountered before. His smile. God that smile was like a drug; just seeing it sent me on a high and I was addicted to it.
I wish I could take it all back.
Every time that I looked at him like he were the stars in my universe, every time that I felt the heat rush to my cheeks whenever he’d place his warm hand in my frozen one, every time that I laughed at his dumb jokes.
Every time that I told him that I loved him, and let him trick me into thinking he ever meant it when he said it back.
The clock struck twelve, and the room stayed as quiet as ever, save for the quiet sobs escaping my trembling lips. No door opening, no warm hugs, nothing. Absolutely nothi-
Click.
The jingling of keys turning the lock registered in my ears, but I refused to move. I didn’t want to talk to him. A ray of dim light came from the complex’s hallways as the door creaked open, and a sigh came from the dark figure as it stepped inside. Moving closer, I shut my eyes tightly, tears squeezed out in silence as I tried to maintain a normal breathing pattern. His breath ghosted over me, his touch gentle, but erratic. That’s when it hit me. Lance soon left me to my thoughts, the sound of shower running confirmed that.
I’d never been one to handle it myself, but there was no denying the alcohol that lingered on his breath. He had been drinking. He hadn’t been working late. He lied to me.
But that was nothing compared to the pungent scent of aftershave or perfume that neither he or I owned. A burst of fragrance entered as soon as that door opened, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine what happened beyond that closed door. I rubbed the metal in my hands to comfort myself but it was no use.
I lost him.
I lost everything.
When I came home that night, I found him on the couch, curled up fast asleep. At least, that’s what I assumed he wanted me to think. The tears in his eyes gave it away. The clock’s hand said five past midnight, but I guess it didn’t click in my head that it also said “you fucked up big time”. I was a bit fucked up at that time too. I took a shower, and I meant to move him from the couch to beside me in bed, but I must have collapsed after the shower, because I woke up to an empty bed.
Something felt off.
I no longer listened for the faint humming along to the radio coming from the kitchen as Keith made breakfast for the two of us, or the bitter cursing as he burnt our breakfast. It had been a while since I had heard him express any emotion like that. Instead, I sniffed for the warm aroma of sizzling bacon or whatever breakfast could be.
But there was none of that.
That kicked some gears in me, and I got up slowly, head still reeling from the night before. Hands pressed against the walls as support, I groggily stumbled towards the kitchen. It was silent. Something sat on the table, and the sight of it knocked all the wind out of me. Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to suddenly surge forwards to the table without considering the fact that I was still relatively hung over. I crashed into the table and fell to the ground as the contents on the table were knocked onto the ground. The blunt pain of the table edge ramming into my ribcage numbed as I read the note amongst the clattering of everything falling around me.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. Goodbye Lance.
My hands shook as the tears fell and the ink-filled droplets ran down the paper. I grasped for the item that accompanied the note that fell beside me. The cold metal dug lightly into my palm as I clutched it as if it would bring him back. My palm opened again, and I examined the scratches on the ring. I never realised. And it made me wonder.
How many drunken nights did I put him through?
How much did I hurt him to make him take back everything?
How could I do this to him?