His mother told me that he had been drinking less since he met me. And I slid in as his new drug of euphoric numbing. So, when he called me that night, I walked outside and stared at the sidewalk as he slurred that I was the girl he was going to marry.
These moments defined our relationship. Like the time he threw the lamp and we watched it shatter at our feet. Him blocking the doorway to his bedroom. Me standing inside. The walls closing in with each breath and darting of his eyes.
It was a game for kids and I was excited for all the ways I had to figure out how to escape. 4 AM on a winter night running to the end of his street. His knuckles beating the white-painted wall next to my face. My birthday dinner. The waterfall of drunk texts whenever I went out with my friends: whore.
Every morning he could pull me back. So delicate was his heart and it felt so good to be longed for. I fell in love with his sweetness because, at the time, I thought it was worth getting destroyed over and over again. It was us rolling around on his couch laughing and playing and kissing each other.
But with each fight, each accusation, I got sicker. Wounds grew bloodier. I chose death everyday. Until the day plates smashed as I ran through the door. The day I was scolded for not wearing enough. So, I drew a line and walked over to the other side.
The cut left my body a shell. For I was set free, but I was lost.
I won’t go into the pain because I’ve since been found. What happened between us feels like a feather now. Barely there. A tragic little story floated away.
When I’m home, I’ll sometimes visit his beach, listen to the waves, and look at where some of our memories took place… I’ve forgotten the details. And when I hear how nothing has changed for him, I relish in how he has changed me.