An excerpt from a book I’ll never write
“I’m leaving,” I told him with my suitcase in hand. He takes off his headset, resting them on his shoulders, then proceeds to pause his game.
“What? Why?” He twists in his chair to face me, leaning back. Even through the darkness of the room, the light that comes from his monitor shines on his eyes. They start to look glassy.
I grip tighter on the handle of my suitcase. It hurts me more to see him like this, but should I stay where there are many reasons. Too many, in fact, than my fingers can count. It’s silly of me to think he’d actually pay attention to me throughout my stay at his place.
Is it fair for me to leave him without knowing the reasons why? Then again, is it fair for me to stay when I keep getting hurt over and over again even if those weren’t his intentions.
“No, I’ll not do that anymore since you didn’t like it last time,” he made an empty promise of not playing games so frequently when I visit. Always empty promises.
Even the tiny little things that he say make my heart break a little. Like he’s holding it in his hand and crushing it as tight as possible. I can’t even talk to him without feeling like my emotions are my fault; he turns it around and make himself the victim, when I am the one who is hurting.
I was supposed to stay for a month, but rebooked it shorter because, as a matter of fact, I don’t think he truly loves me. He might love the idea of me; maybe my company. But certainly not with me.
He hasn’t touched me in weeks. So I’ve distanced myself to see how he would react.
His mind and heart only to his games.
Over and over again, I question myself, “Do I want to stay? Do I love him enough to stay?” I always thought to myself that when I get back from this trip that I would end it with him, somehow. Not on the day that I leave, but after. I never thought of how long after, but definitely after. I always pictured how it would go:
I am staying in my dorm room. The room is dark except for the light that is shining in from the street lamp. I am sitting up in my bed, with my phone in hand, ready to call him.
“I don’t want to be with you anymore,” I tell him. I can tell that a lump would be in my throat, choking the tears in. I’m not crying during the call. I knew that I wouldn’t do it. I would cry after.
That’s when the scenario ends.
But here I am, standing here in the hallway; him looking at me with eyes filled with questions. Eyebrows pushed together in question.
It is quiet except for the humming of his computer.
The only sound that I make is me swallowing my spit before speaking. “I’m just tired of being hurt all the time,”
He scoffs, “Hurt? Come on, you’re overreacting,”
I exhale loudly through my nose. “I don’t want to stay in a relationship where games come before us,” I swallow the lump that is starting to rise in my throat.
He raises from his seat, but I start leaving for the front door as a taxi waits for me outside.
“No, wait! Don’t go! Please!” He pulls me back into his arms; enveloping me into his chest. I can feel his tear drop onto the top of my forehead. I take a whiff of his scent one last time before pushing him away.
“You had me, but you let me slip away too easily,” as I take one step back, his grip on my arms tighten.
“I won’t let you. I’m sorry. Just…” He sniffles. “Let us talk through this,”
I don’t feel loved, cared for, or anything. One year of fully loving him for who he is and standing by all his flaws only to be treated like nothing.