So he tells you he loves you and you don't doubt him. You don't doubt him because you never knew that love is a thing you can lie about, that it's possible to say those words with an empty heart, that he did just that the day you agreed to let him into your life.
"You're not enough," he says. He says it out of the blue, sitting across from you at your own table, between bites of a meal you cooked. "I need more than what you offer me."
"But," you say, more baffled than hurt, "you love me."
He wipes his mouth and sets the napkin to the side of his empty plate. "What," he askes, "gave you that idea?"
It's a mean and bitter lesson. Hearts don't always connect no matter how much you might want them to.
But it's a lesson you only need taught once. You quietly see him to the door and, when he leaves without a goodbye kiss, you lock it behind him. You stand there and stare at the plain wood for a few minutes, just breathing. Processing.
"Okay," you say quietly. You nod to yourself. "Okay."
You call the locksmith in the morning. He may not have loved you like you wanted, but that doesn't mean he won't come back. You know him at least this much--he views the world as a toy and, though you tried not to be, you are but a piece of it. Cared for or not, broken or not, he doesn't let go of what is his unless he's made to let go.
You are hurt in ways you can't begin to explore so you latch onto the anger instead. How dare he say that to you? After everything you've said, felt and done? Done for him? He says you're not enough, fine. But he doesn't get to use you to fill the hole he feels in his soul.
Your heart is an active disaster zone, crumbling and tearing under his words, but your mind is on fire. He'll pay for this in the only way that matters--you'll cut him out completely.
Once the locks are changed, you pull out your computer and start looking for jobs out of state.
|World Visitor Map|