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She knows he doesn’t love her.
Knows he never did
or never could
He was capable of it, contrary to popular belief, he was capable of love.
She saw it in the way his hands brushed tears from her eyes, in the way his eye crinkled at the edges, in the way he spoke softly when others were around.
She also saw that he was incapable of love. Or at least incapable of loving her.
Or maybe it was just the way he loved her that she didn’t understand. She couldn’t make sense of how his shredded up excuse for a heart was supposed to fit in her chest. Didn’t realize that when he said he was trying… he was. He was trying. The best he knew how to.
She knows they were both immature.
Both nearly thirty, but they were kids at heart.
They were children playing with things they couldn’t understand the consequences of yet.
And they still indulged occasionally.
The saying is ‘playing with fire,’ but Vanessa swears it’s more like playing with ice.
The feeling of alone and small and cold (Fake cold stares and incredible distance.)
Then there is thawing. (A brush of hands that sends a spark along a spine.)
Then a melting.
And inevitably, a re-freezing
No, Vanessa knows it is more like playing with ice because she always ends up in a puddle of water and tears.
But for some reason, she likes the way the ice never re-freezes the same way. She likes that there is less of it as time goes on, some parts evaporated or soaked into her clothes. She likes the way it soaks into her skin because at least it feels like something. And if she closes her eyes tight enough, the trails of wetness almost feel like fingertips.
And that’s the hardest part. That she would give it up. She would give it all up, even now, for a chance. No guarantees, just the chance to love him again. And be loved by him.
It sucks, and it hurts, and it doesn’t stop hurting.
And it won’t stop hurting.
It will hurt less.
She knows.
With time it will hurt less.
But it hurts right now.
In the early morning or late night hours where the sun and the moon are both absent. She misses having someone. Misses being had by someone. And that’s fine, and that’s okay, and that’s good. It’s nice to have someone and be had by someone. That’s what everyone wants. And when you have someone but someone doesn’t have you… it hurts. Because you know their middle name and their birthday and their dog’s birthday and their mother’s favorite flower and what school their brother goes to and their least favorite pizza topping.
But they only know that they don’t love you anymore.