I’m losing her.
But she doesn’t know it right now, as wisps of dark hair spread across a pillow. I watch her eyes as they flutter closed, flecks of mascara sprinkled across the ball of her cheek, and I smile a sad smile. I’ve never liked nostalgia. But I’ve always loved her. It took a week to learn, and three months to say. The confession stole from my lips like thunder, crashing sharply against her skin. “Tell me again,” she begged, so I did. For a year on end, I said it every day, hope lingering behind those three syllables like a present.
I’m losing her.
She sighs softly, but it echoes through the quiet. Her hands grip the sheets - she always insists on washing them weekly - and I cringe. I never used to wash my sheets. I was lazy, a would-be frat boy in a near empty house, refusing to use dishes just so I wouldn’t have to clean. But that was four years ago, before the curve of her frame melded against my mattress, before she ever became permanent. I was used to the clean sheets now. I was used to this bed frame, those night stands, that girl.
I’m losing her.
And I want to tell her as she turns, shoulder blade digging harshly into the pillow. I want to tell her as she struggles to sleep, the secrets she hides from the world forcing her awake. I want so badly to snake my arm around her waist and warm her skin with my breath, the way I used to. “I love you.” I could whisper. “Say it again,” she might beg, longing beneath her tongue. But it wouldn’t matter. We’re too far gone. She’s pulling away, leaving me with stale memories, and I swallow back my protests. She doesn’t look to me for comfort anymore, after the day was too long and the fragile infrastructure of her heart couldn’t stand it. She doesn’t bury herself beneath the covers and cry, clinging to my skin hopefully. And I know that it’s my fault as we sit in jilted silence, both of us hanging onto the words we could never say. I know that she’s heartbroken. I know that I am too.
I’m losing her.
Hesitantly, I lift a hand. My fingers brush along her skin, but this time it’s different. She tenses at my touch. I sweep toward her palm. She freezes. I squeeze. She holds her breath. I’m losing her. My body eases closer, but she stays rigid, cold. “I love you,” I whisper.
“Is everything okay?” She asks, but doesn’t move.
I’m losing her.
“Yes.”
And I turn away, her warmth lingering against my palm as I do. I blink at the walls, bite back hurt. I wonder if she can hear the crack in my chest as it vibrates through the room. I wonder if she knows how sorry I am. I want to tell her that I would take it all back if I could, make it different. I want to be those people we were the first year, before I was lazy, before she was indifferent.
But I don’t.
“Love conquers all.” I say out loud, gaze robbing the words off a poster on the ceiling.
“Not always,” she admits, and her words are so soft that I can barely hear them.
“Sometimes life does.”
I lost her.
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