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He was lost. And I couldn't understand that. I couldn't understand that at any moment he could leave. He'd pack his things and simply leave.
And I wanted him to stay, oh I wanted him to stay. I was afraid of the loneliness, the emptiness of the bed, the coldness of the sheets, afraid of waking up in the middle of the night reaching my hand and not finding him. I was so afraid of being left again.
We had our good days and bad ones, our ups and downs. Some, we shouted and broke glass, ugly words out of our cold throats, others we'd curl up on the couch drinking tea and reading, holding each other's hands drawing inapprehensible shapes on each other's skin. And I truly thought that we were okay, till this day, I don't know who's to blame.
He said he felt trapped, tied to me, said he needed to breath, think about things. And he packed his things and left at 5 in the morning with birds chirping out of my window. And I waited for days, for him to come back, run up to me and crush me in a hug, saying he loves me, he's okay now, we're okay now.
But he didn't. He didn't come back, and I didn't wake up at 2 in the morning to find him drinking a cup of tea and writing. I didn't find a letter saying where he has gone, that he's fine, he's on an adventure he'll tell me about when he comes back.
Maybe he is on an adventure, maybe he doesn't want to come back, maybe he's with someone else, curled up on the couch with them reading poetry and breathing into their neck. And maybe he doesn't know how much I miss him, how my life has truned to shit ever since the day he walked out of my door, and I begged him to stay. I told him let's drink tea and talk about it.
And he left.
He left the door open, and I always believed that maybe he left the door open out of hesitation, maybe his legs shook on the stairs asking him to turn back, maybe he left the door open signaling hope, telling me to keep my heart open, keep my heart ready when he comes back. Maybe he left it open just because he never finished anything he started, not that cup of tea he always left on the coffee table, and not that book he left on the bed beside his pillow, and not that painting he drew and used the brush to tuck his hair behind his ear. And maybe, the door was open because of the wind. But I won't let myself believe that.