This version of me always feels like a script. My quiet movements. The illusion of control I desperately cling to. It’s a dance I’ve practiced so many times that keeping my tone low,my hands steady, is like muscle memory now.Don’t show fear. Don’t spark more fury.
“I’ll get it. Just sit down, okay? Don’t walk over here, please. Neither of us needs to get hurt.”
He mutters something under his breath, but I don’t ask him to repeat it. Instead, I focus on the shards of the vase, carefully sweeping them into the dustpan. The pieces glitter under the light, deceptively pretty. I wish it were just the vase that was broken.
I will my tears to stay hidden. Crying only makes things worse.
My mind drifts to my parents. They’re still so happy and so in love after all these years, and I used to think Dillon and I were on the same path. For a while, we were. Our first eight years together weren’t a lie or a dream. They were real, and they were ours.
Even so, love’s not supposed to feel like hanging on by your fingernails.
Somewhere along the way, between long shifts and periods of silence, between the weight of what he saw at work and what he carried home, we stopped being on the same side of the fight. I used to tell myself it was the job that changed him, and that if he could resign, if he could just choose me over the darkness, maybe we’d find our way back.
But he never did, and I think, deep down, I stopped waiting for him to want to.
I know he’s angry, that there’s a pain inside him so deep and tangled that I’ll never fully understand.
I’ve loved him through every rough patch, every bad night, every fight that left me feeling like I was clawing my way out of quicksand with every breath I took. I’ve been patient and held on tighter than I ever thought I could, pretending that my strength could be enough for both of us.
Still, as the last of the fragments scrape into the dustpan, the weight of it all settles hard in my chest. Heavier than grief. Heavier than anger.
Maybe I’ve known for a while now that one day I’d hit the limit of what I could carry. No matter how tightly I hold on, love was never meant to be an endurance sport.
I’m so tired of putting energy toward something that keeps breaking me in return.
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep pretending that this is normal. My hands tremble, but I force myself to stand tall as I turn to face him.
“I can’t do this anymore, Dillon.”
He looks over at me, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused. “What are you talking about?”
“This,” I say, motioning weakly around the room. “I can’t keep waiting for the next time you’re going to explode or break something else.”
“You’re not leaving me.”
I take a breath. “I’m not saying goodbye forever,” I tell him, my tone gentler now. “I think I’ll stay with my parents for a while. Just until we figure out what’s next.”
He lets out a bitter laugh. “Figure out what’s next? What does that even mean, Bree? You’re bailing.”
“I’m not bailing,” I say, my voice cracking just a little. “I’m stepping back. You need space. I need clarity. This,” I gesture around us, “isn’t working. But that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring.”
He shakes his head, pacing again. “You walk out that door, don’t bother coming back. I swear to god, Bree?—”
“I don’t think you mean that.” I keep my tone calm, measured. “And I’m not going to fight with you. I’ll come by tomorrow to get a few more of my things while you’re at work. We’ll talk another time. When things aren’t so…tense.”
“I’m not giving up,” I add quietly as a reminder. “I’m just giving us a chance to breathe.”
I don’t wait for his response. If I do, I might lose my nerve entirely. I whistle for Nugget, our German shepherd who’s been cowering in the corner, watching us with worried eyes. He pads over to me, tail tucked between his legs. “Come on, buddy,” I murmur, running a hand over his velvety fur. “We’re going for a ride.”
I grab his leash from the hook by the door and clip it to his collar. He follows me obediently, glancing back at Dillon with a whine.
“You’re not taking my dog,” Dillon snarls, taking a step toward us.
“He’sourdog. I’m not leaving him here like this. And this doesn’t have to be permanent, Dillon. I’ll be back, okay?”
His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t argue. I think he knows Nugget will be better off with me for the time being.
I open the door, the late summer air wrapping around me. Nugget hesitates on the threshold, ears twitching, then trots out beside me like he’s known all along this was coming.
