033

                                    

                                          
He inhales, shifting his eyes to the ceiling. Then he reaches for my hands, holding my knuckles just under his nose. His eyes squeeze shut, and he looks like he could cry.
                          
My chest feels like it could break at any moment.
                          
"Marley." The way he says my name alone makes my eyes well up in tears, and I blink them back. 
                          
"Marley. This — you — you're important to me. This is important to me. Please don't think otherwise, please. Whatever this is, I want it, I want this and you and whatever we started here, because I'm positive that this is something, we have something, and it's something good." He pauses.
                          
"This, and this film — it's been happening all at once, and I wanted to tell you, please believe me that I did, you need to know that I wanted to tell you, I was going to. I just couldn't figure out..." He trails off.
                          
"You don't want this."
                          
"What? No, I—"
                          
"You're not sure about me, or this, and that's why you couldn't tell me, because you were too scared to place me in perspective with the rest of your life," I say at a normal volume, escalating, my words escaping like weapons.
                          
"Marley, that's not true—" his voice raises.
                          
"Then why couldn't you tell me?" My voice breaks. I climb off the bed, hands running through my hair, squeezing my eyes shut to stop myself from crying. I begin pacing the room.
                          
He makes a small leap from the bed, following me. "Marley, it's just five months." The rise in volume fills the room.
                          
"It's five fucking months."
                          
He sits on the edge of the bed, his hands grasping at his hair. "I'm so fucking sorry, I know I should've said something, but we can still do this, I know we can, okay?"
                          
"Fuck you."
                          
"You don't mean that."
                          
"I fucking trusted you, and you don't tell me this—"
                          
"I wanted to, okay? We've both been equally confused about this, we've both been scared, we've both been nervous, god I've been so fucking scared and maybe I was scared of putting you in perspective with the rest of my life, okay?"
                          
I ponder at this confession. "So this is some sort of escapist thing."
                          
"Dammit, Marley—"
                          
"Your life stresses you out so much that you've turned to me like some sort of drug. A fucking fantasy."
                          
"You don't know the first thing about my life, Marley." The anger in his voice makes my knees go weak.
                          
His index and thumb are pinching the bridge of his nose. I have a hand on my waist, the other one on my forehead, fingers pushing back my hair.
                          
We've both stopped, aware of what's happening, aware of the mess we've created, equally too afraid to argue. A new kind of distance has been created between us; only metaphorical now, but ever so real after he's really gone. After he leaves.
                          
The elevated anger begins to settle, both of us at a loss for words. He's searching my face. His unbrushed hair lies in a tousled brown mop, shoulders hunched, regret and worry strewn about his face.
                          
Even with all the anger I'm feeling, with how much I want to yell and cry and pull out my hair, I still want to fall into him and hold him. To take back all of my words, to tighten my arms around his neck and bury my face in his neck, to hear his heartbeat again, to feel his arms around my waist, his fingers stroking my hair.
                          
I'm unsure if I'll ever feel it again. The thought makes my chest numb.
                          
"I wasn't thinking," I finally say.
                          
His silence is the only response I need.
                          
He gets up from the bed, finding his shirt and jeans on the floor, pulling them on as he walks out to the living room. I crawl back onto my bed, sitting criss-crossed, feeling so much in my chest that it comes out as numbness. The tears I fought back before are now absent. Familiar walls begin to close in on me. The same ones from before I met Timothée.
                          
I move from my bed, still wearing only a large t-shirt over my underwear, and retrieve something from my closet before walking out to the living room.
                          
He turns around at my footsteps. I hold out his t-shirt from that very first night, the one that lived in my closet like a sacred relic.
                          
"This is yours."
                          
He takes it from me, holding it in his hands for a moment. We stand several feet from each other, my arms crossed, staring at the ground in silence, like we're somehow strangers again. Even though we both know well that we're anything but that.
                          
The smallest grin begins to curl onto his face as he examines the shirt in his hands. He looks like he might say something about it, but just as quickly, the look is gone, along with the grin. He bunches the shirt up in his hand, arm dropping to his side.
                          
"This isn't some sort of escapist thing," he says, interrupting the silence. "This is just me wanting you."
                          
"I don't know if either of us know what we want."
                          
"My flight is at seven tonight," he says after another heartbreaking silence. "JFK."
                          
I nod. I stand in front of him, waiting, unsure of what for.
                          
"We can FaceTime. I'll call you. I'll fly you out there, even, I can. We can...it can work," he says, his voice breaking at the end, and I'm so scared that I'll have to see him cry.
                          
"Timothée," I say, moving closer. "Focus on you. Okay? Focus on your work. The film. This is about you. This is your passion. Focus on you." At last, a warm tear makes its way down my cheek.
                          
Like it's an impulse now, his hands move to cupping my face, his thumb brushing the tear away, his eyes searching my face. Gently, I take his hands and move them down.
                          
I want to ask more questions. I want to wonder what my life will look like in five months. What his will look like. If I can really put myself through a long five months, while he's across the ocean, living his star-studded life, doing what he loves. Perhaps meeting someone new, someone who fits better than I do. My stomach drops at the thought.
                          
There are too many questions. There is no use in asking them, because there will never be time for all of the answers.
                          
"I'm sorry," he says, his eyes beginning to glisten.
                          
I nod. "Me too."
                          
After another longing moment of our eyes asking answerless questions, he nods and turns toward the door, where I follow him.
                          
I hold the door open as he exits into my hallway, lingering for a moment before walking away.
                          
"Timmy," I say, stopping him in his tracks.
                          
My chest is forming an uncontrollable ache, but I offer him a smile anyway. 
                          
"I'm so proud of you."
                          
He nods, smiling back at me, and we linger. I wonder if he's replayed the night we met as much as I have.
                          
At last, he turns, walking down the hallway, exiting around the corner.
                          
And he's gone.
                          
I stay at my doorway for a moment, looking down the empty hallway, unsure of what I'm expecting. I don't want to return to my empty bed.
                          
He's gone. This time, for good. The chase has to end. It's time to wake up.
                          
The weight of my closing door is the metaphorical crushing blow of the past month and a half. I can't move, my forehead resting on the door, as my chest begins to heave, tears once absent now erupting in full force.
                          
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a/n: author cried while writing. author is very sad
author is experiencing more feelings of sadness/heartache than usual lately & finds it cathartic to write about