Good Night

“You’re different,”

“People change,” he replies dryly and almost too quickly.

I lay there, the broken mess of tears and hair, intermittent gasping and sniffling and stinging eyes.

I will never lose you.

I look up at him. The space between his eyes, the curve of his chin.

I think of all the mornings I spent laying next to him – heart bursting and aching for him, only for him. Just as I did that morning. As I did the first morning I woke up next to him. My eyes begin to sting again.

As I stare at the hard line of his lips I realize that my tears no longer alarm him. My sobbing is as good as white noise.

He asks me why I’m crying.

He suggests we take some time off.

I will never lose you.

I look at his eyes. A little more tired, more deep set than four years ago. Emptier. I watch him probe my face for answers, for words.

We are large question marks to one another. I decide in that moment that I no longer know you. We no longer know one another.

I decide in that moment that we don’t have very long.

We don’t have very long.

You have been talking for 10 minutes straight and I have said nothing. You are 10 minutes closer to our end, and me, I am not. I have not said anything.

Tonight I say we should take a break. You quickly oblige. You are sound asleep and closer to a morning where we are not together. And me, I haven’t slept. I am afraid to sleep. Afraid to let go, when I must.

I decide that after this time off will be the end for us.

I will never lose you. I will never lose you. I will never lose you.

Good night, I love you.

Sweet dreams.

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