How did we get here?
I thought when we sat across the table from each other exactly a year ago, we made a nonverbal agreement to never be here. We shared the intimate details of lost love over dizzying amounts of cider and chased each other around the grocery store afterwards like children. That was the same night you gave me your sweatshirt to wear home – after you had put it in the dryer so it was extra warm for me.
We spent 5 weeks unable to detach from one another. You went on the first run of your life just because you wanted to spend time with me. I played and sang for you as your birthday present because I didn’t know what else to get for you. The look on your face can still be recalled to the forefront of my brain when I pick up my guitar.
When reality finally did separate us, all forms of technology kept us connected. You were my phone call to and from work, my good morning text, the receiver of all screenshots of memes on Instagram because you didn’t have an account. You were my ‘guess what happened today’, ‘wish you could be my date to this’, ‘how do I look’ companion.
It took close to a year for me to finally give in and decide to be yours and you to be mine. We both knew that’s what we were all along, but we wanted to make it official. We felt so in love and it felt so promising. Then I found out out I was pregnant. It shook us – mostly me – but you never had a doubt. It was your dream come true.
So you dropped everything to come and be with me. We struggled. Hard. You couldn’t find work and I had the pressure of floating both of us. We went from living on opposite sides of the country to learning how to co-exist in the same space. I don’t think there was any way we could have prepared for that. We fought. Even harder. Raging preggo hormones made my already unstable emotional state 10x worse. But we always made up and I found reasons to rationalize why I wanted to stay in this.
Then we lost the baby. Everything got pushed to the side. We no longer fought but we no longer…anything’d really. I was going through the motions because what little grasp I had on emotional security was broken. I did, and still do, blame myself. You wanted our baby and I was consumed with doubt. I’ll never forgive myself for feeling like I took away your opportunity to be a Father. No matter how many people try to tell me it’s not my fault – I will always place the blame on myself.
Now, I’ve come home to find no trace that you were ever here. Your stuff is gone and big empty spaces in closets and on countertops is all that remains. You gave up on me and I’m not really sure that I can blame you. I’m not easy to love. Many have come before you and failed where I thought you would succeed. I know everyone has a breaking point but I truly thought you would love me until you were in a million pieces.
I don’t plan on reaching out to you and I know you won’t reach out to me. So this is the only way I know how to move on from this. I’m sorry that I couldn’t love you how you love me. I’m sorry that you felt the need to physically ghost out of my life and you couldn’t stand to tell me goodbye. I’m sorry that this didn’t turn out anything like what we dreamt of during all of those months we spent apart. I’m sorry that my past has proven me unable to handle relationships in a healthy way.
But most of all, I’m sorry that I know deep down this is what needed to happen. I’m dreading going to bed tonight and waking up tomorrow morning without you. So I’m going to drink some wine and be really sad. But one day soon, I know I will wake up and it’s not going to be so bad. Because I just can’t love you.