And the part that’s killing me is that she’s right about all of it. About me not being here enough, about her being alone.
God, she lost our baby, and I wasn’t fucking here. I can’t begin to imagine what she went through that night, and when she needed me the most—to hold her, to rock her in my arms—I wasn’t here.
She was alone all the time anyway, so of course she would leave. Who the hell wouldn’t? But to not take my calls or want to talk to me . . .? How am I supposed to survive that?
Something crinkles inside my pocket, and I remember the crumpled paper I stuffed inside. My fingers shake as I pull it out to read through the list again since I never comprehended it the first time.
Ten Things I Wish About You:
1. I wish I had more of you than anyone else does.
2. I wish you’d stop promising “soon” when we both know you mean “never”.
3. I wish you could be present in all our big moments. I wish you could be present in the small ones, too.
4. I wish I didn’t have to face my fears alone.
5. I wish you’d make me laugh until I cry, not cry because you’re gone again.
6. I wish you remembered that you married your best friend, not your job.
7. I wish you’d believe that you’re more than the boy who got left behind—you’re the man I chose.
8. I wish you knew that my silence isn’t acceptance, it’s heartbreak. It’s exhaustion.
9. I wish you’d remember that I matter more than any phone call.
10. I wish you’d see that I’m drowning.
The last line blurs, echoing inside my head like a gavel in a courtroom.
I wish you’d see that I’m drowning.
How could I not have seen? How could I have missed it behind her sad smiles and slumped shoulders?
Despite the tears still falling, I fold the list into a small square, placing it inside my wallet and making a vow to read it every day to remind myself of my failures, of everything I lost.
And that’s exactly what happens.
For years, I stay true to my vow, reading her list on planes, in lonely hotel rooms, between takes, and on breaks. The paper starts to soften and crease. And though the ink starts to fade, it burns bright inside my mind, her heartbroken wishes etched inside my soul.
It’s my punishment and my penance, a reminder of all she wanted and everything I didn’t give her. Maybe one day it would be my redemption.
Though, what I don’t realize then is that the list won’t just be a plan forifI ever get her back; it’ll be the commandments I’ll live by forwhenI have her again in my arms.
For the next year, I’ll call her like the hope of hearing her voice is the only thing keeping me alive. I’ll even fly to San Francisco and beg her to talk to me.
Until one day, when she sends me a final text, begging me to let go, before changing her number.
So I do. I let her go. Not because I want to, but because she’s left me no choice.
I let her go and spend the next years working on myself, to face the parts of me I’d ignored to one day become someone worthy of her again.
Except, what I don’t know then—what I can’t possibly know—is that six years from now, she’ll be standing in front of me. And when I finally have her mouth on mine, I’ll realize that she never really let go, despite what she’d asked me to do.
That, like me, she never really moved on, either.
And this time, I’ll make sure she never wants to.
