NotI want you.
NotI love you.
I need you.
I sit there in the closet, surrounded by his things and the scent of him and the life I was halfway inside of...And I feel my heart crack.It's not loud, it's a quiet break.Like a fault line that finally let’s go.
I pick up the binders again, and this time it isn’t confusion I feel.It’s clarity.
I’m not naïve.I know he didn’t write these words.I know he didn’t create this strategy.
But he saw it.
Heknew.
He let them build a story out of me, a story he never asked whether I wanted to be a part of.Nate didn’t protect me from this.He protected himself.He protected his image.
I angrily wipe the tears off my face, and on shaky legs, I stand.
The dress feels like it is suffocating me.It feels like a lie.I pull until the zipper finally gives and let it pool at my feet.I take off the heels and leave them on the floor beside the dress.I pull on my old jeans, my softest sweater, the boots with worn creases that smell like hay and dust and my real life.The one that’smine.The one that isn't a fucking lie.
My duffel is already half packed, because I basically live between our places.I grab only the things that belong tome.Not the things he bought.Not the things branded to fit someone else’s idea of who I should be.The last thing I pack is the hoodie he gave me the first night he slept at my place.I hesitate; I want it...But it is his.With shaky hands, I fold it gently and tuck it inside.When I’m done, I walk through his apartment with new eyes.
I place the binders on the island.
Neatly.
Deliberately.
I set his key on top.
Then, because I need at least one thing in this mess to sound like me, I tear a piece of paper from a notebook in my bag and write him a note, which at this point may even be more than he deserves.He hasn't even messaged me yet.And I don't know if that is because he hasn't noticed I left or because he is angry, I left.
But it doesn't matter why.The damage is done.
With hands that won't stop shaking, I write...
Nate,
I love you.
God, I wish that made this easier.
But I won’t be a storyline.
I won’t be something the team can package and plan around.
You should have told me.
You should have protected me.
Instead, I was the last person in the room to know the truth.
I don’t know what was real anymore.
Maybe that’s the part that hurts the most.
Goodbye
