Love was supposed to be sweet, so why did it sting?

I'm sitting on the bed, head down, staring at my fingers, digging into my thumbnail like it's all that matters. The silence presses down like a pump, squeezing the air out of the room.

I don't want to look up and see his face. I've seen enough of that anger. I'm shouting internally, "Just say it, or I will." Because I can't anymore. My eyes are burning red every day.

But I know me. I won't say it.

So I sit, silent, waiting for him to speak. Then, as if on cue, he speaks, pulling the words out of my head.

Out of my heart? Maybe.

I lift my head and meet his eyes. The way they used to look at me with love filled with something darker. Resentment? Regret? I don't know. I know he's standing there, like a wall, cold and distant.

I'm sitting on the couch, watching him pack through the blur of my tears.

He said he wanted to leave and start something new, so I let him. Wiping the tears, I stand and walk over. "I'll help," I said. Stand beside him, eyes wet, throwing his things into cardboard boxes. Things I know too well.

Things that bring a flood of yesterdays.

I remember the day he walked in, flowers in his hands—roses, redder than any blood. My hands flew to my mouth, and I nodded and said yes before he spoke. I remember walking on the beach with our sandals hanging from our fingertips as waves lapped our feet. I remember him leaning into my arms, crying, saying sorry. I thought it was my fault, too.

I look at the scar on my arm. Think about the scars on my shoulder and back if I lift my shirt. We've tried so hard, but this is where it ends now.

But I'm no victim. Mind you. I gave as good as I got.

I can still see the red faces and wet eyes. Feel the fists on my skin, on his, too. Pushing, pulling, dragging, screaming, throwing things at each other. Then, crying, holding each other to sleep, like actors in a tragic play, stuck in endless, dramatic scenes. Except this isn't a play, and we're no actors on stage.

We're just two broken souls trapped in this room, worsening each other's wounds with every clash.

I'm by the window as he reaches for the door; he walks out, says goodbye, and closes it gently. I slide to the floor, looking around. God, can rooms cry? Or is it just me? I sit there, knees to my chest, wondering if this is really? Me, alone, with these rooms and broken dreams? I didn't see it coming until it hit, like a wave crashing over me, pulling me under before I could breathe. Now I'm drowning in what's left.

I was a fool to think love was a sweet descent into a honey jar. It wasn't.

Love and pain were two sides of the same coin, each flip cutting me deeper. When the fighting started, I didn't see it for what it was. Not really. Just the usual, I thought, the way couples do. But then the usual turned to more, and more turned to every day, and I found myself in a room full of broken glass, tiptoeing around shards that couldn't be put back together. And we didn't talk about it. Slammed the door shut, leaving the skeleton rattling in the closet. A dirty secret neither of us wanted to let touch our tongues. The skeleton in the closet finally came out, and we had no choice but to face it.

I bolt awake to my phone buzzing on the nightstand. I thought it was the alarm, but it was 2 a.m. Glance over and see his number. I sigh and pick up. He says sorry without even saying hello first. His voice sounds ragged and soft. I tell him it's okay as I sit up and lean against the headboard.

I sit up and lean against the headboard. Pressing the phone to my ear, I listen to his heavy breaths. I ask if he's okay; he says yes but wants to tell me he dreamt about me.

I nod, even though he can't see me.

I leave bed and go to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. He reminds me of when we used to stay up talking about everything. I told him we had good talks. Then he goes quiet for a while and says he misses me. Says it tenderly. I know it's too late to use those words in such a soft tone. I take a sip of water.

"I know," I say.

He thanked me for picking up, and both of us said goodnight. I fling the window open for air. Do I have the heart to do it again? With him? Because I'm darn sure what he wants. I turn away from the window, leaving it behind.

Leaving him behind.

As I walk to the bed, I know there will come a day when I'll weep for this. But for now, with every step I take, it becomes harder for me to turn back.

Matt Adil is a freelance writer and passionate storyteller who writes personal essays, exploring themes of love and identity with his unique voice. You can find him on Medium, a little corner of the internet where he shares his thoughts.

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