37. Mariana
Mariana
I t had been weeks since I let him go, weeks since I stood in my home, arms wrapped around myself like I could somehow hold together the pieces of what I was about to destroy, and told the biggest fucking lie of my life.
It had been weeks since I watched the light die in his eyes, since I heard his breath hitch, since I felt the weight of my words land like a physical blow, one I wasn’t sure he’d recover from.
Since I had looked at the man I loved, the man who had given me everything, who had stood in front of me, offering me his entire fucking soul, and told him I didn’t want it.
Since I had convinced myself that walking away from love was easier than losing it. I should feel better, I’m supposed to feel better; that’s what people always say, right?
"Time heals all wounds."
"You just need space."
"It was probably for the best."
But what if they were wrong? What if time wasn’t healing anything? What if every passing day only stretched the wound wider, dug the blade deeper, left me more hollow than the day before?
What if the world kept moving, but I stayed stuck in the moment I let him go?
Autumn had settled over the town. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of burning leaves and woodsmoke, the type of air that used to make me want to curl up inside with a cup of coffee, wrapped in a sweater, tucked against him. Now, it just feels cold.
I walked down Main Street, past shop windows decorated for the season, past people who smiled at me like they didn’t know. Like they couldn’t see the wreckage I was barely holding together.
The diner was exactly the same. The bell still jingled when the door opened, the scent of bacon and coffee still thick in the air, but without him, it felt different.
There was an empty seat in the corner by the window, our seat. The one where we’d spent countless mornings together, where I’d stolen his toast and he’d stolen my bacon, where our hands had brushed across the table, lingering longer than necessary.
I turned my head before I could look too long, before the ache in my chest could grow sharp enough to cut. But I still saw him….not really, but for a second, I swore I did.
A familiar broad set of shoulders, dark hair, a profile that looked just enough like his to make my breath hitch, and then I blinked, and he was gone…Just like always.
Inside my house, the silence wasn’t peaceful, it was suffocating. The heater kicked on, filling the space with warm air, but I still felt cold.
I still reached for his hoodie every night, draping it over my shoulders, inhaling the fading scent of him like I could pull him closer.
I still left the bathroom light on, a habit from when he used to get up before me, when I’d groggily stumble inside and he’d already have my toothbrush ready with a smirk and a kiss.
I still hadn’t deleted his messages, or thrown away the half-empty bottle of cologne he used to leave on my dresser, or moved the cup he’d left on my nightstand weeks ago, his fingerprints still faint against the glass. I know I should let go, and that I should move forward.
But every piece of him still existed in this house, in me, and I didn’t know how to live without it.
The nights were the worst. The moments between laying down and falling asleep stretched too long, stretched too empty, stretched too goddamn quiet.
The space where he used to sleep was untouched, like some pathetic part of me thought he might come back. I flipped over onto my side, burying my face into the pillow, but the ache in my chest only grew heavier.
I reached blindly toward the nightstand, grabbing my phone before my mind could stop me. I stared at his name, and hovered my finger over it…I could just call, hear his voice one last time, just… say something, anything.
My thumb brushed against the screen, my pulse thudding in my ears, but then reality slammed into me. If I called, what would I say? Would he even pick up? Would he even want to hear my voice after everything I’d done?
My vision blurred, my throat tightening, my chest squeezing like a vice, then, before I could let my heart get ahead of me, I turned off my phone and threw it onto the nightstand. I curled in on myself, blinking against the burn in my eyes, swallowing against the lump in my throat.
I had done the right thing; that’s what I told myself. That’s what I repeated like a mantra every morning when I woke up alone. Every night when I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of the silence press down on me.
I had protected myself, I had made the logical choice. So then why did I feel like I was unraveling? Why did everything feel muted, like the world had dimmed just enough for me to notice that something was missing…That he was missing?
Why did I keep waiting for this ache to pass, for my heart to settle, for time to do what everyone swore it would?
I thought letting go would mean moving forward, but I had only been standing in place, waiting for something to change, for something to shift, for something to make me believe that I had made the right choice.
But there weren’t any changes, there weren't any shifts…The world kept turning, but I stayed right here. Stuck. I had let him go. It was the right thing to do.
Then why did it feel like I had done the worst thing imaginable? I had broken something that could never be put back together. I had broken him. I had broken myself.
He had forgiven me once before. Somehow, despite everything, he had let me back in.
But twice? No one gets forgiven twice.