I am almost certain that whatever separated us before was also my fault. There is a pattern here, and I am the constant offender.
I’m undeserving of his forgiveness. I should not be allowed to grovel or to explain myself any further.
Making my way to my bedroom, I try to calm my shaking hands, but nothing works. No amount of shoving them into my pockets or clasping them together is quelling the constant vibration.
Spotting the notebook paper on the floor, I pick it up. At least I can keep this—these memories. And now I have several more to add to my bank; memories of Elijah smiling at me so sweetly and the smell of his flushed skin.
Was it worth it? Was meeting him worth the aftermath of his leaving? This pain—this knowledge that I am losing something far more important than myself—it is suffocating.
I do not want these memories. I do not want a reminder of what I am losing without him by my side. I would rather have never met him, to have died completely alone without ever experiencing what it truly means to be held by another.
Oh, god. I’m falling apart. I can feel it—the inevitable crack and crumble of my soul, my very core.
Is this a heart attack? Will Elijah feel it when I die? Are we so incredibly intertwined that he will feel my pain the way I feel his panic?
In the span of one blink to the next, I have ripped everything off my corkboard. Photos and papers scatter onto the hardwood.
I spot Elijah in various stages of his day—I see the outline of several days together from a life long lived.
I’m losing my damn mind. I fear it is here where I finally break. My mother is so concerned for the life of my brother overseas, when in reality, she should have been more concerned for the life of the son buried under thousands of heart-wrenching memories.
How cruel is it to put these memories in my head—to show me exactly what I could have, the life that would finally bring me contentment—only to tell me I can never have it?
My hands fumble for my cellphone as I pant, falling to my knees atop the various photographs and notebook pages. I pull the device from my pocket and dial the only number I can think of.
“Hey, Row,” Marissa answers on the fourth ring.
“Help me,” I demand, and I realize I’m sobbing.
“What’s wrong?!”
“I-I fucked up. He saw. Rissa, he saw everything.”
I hear her sharp intake of breath through the receiver.
“The photos?” she asks, and I sob harder.
“Yes. And the papers.” I’m sure she can hear the panic in my voice. She can probably taste it with how thick and consuming it is.
“Oh, Rowan,” Marissa coos, her voice soft and placating. “I’m so sorry. Did he leave?”
“Of course he left! He told me he’d c-call the cops if I came near him again.”
“I can’t really blame him,” she mutters, and when I choke out another sob, she sighs. “I know now isn’t the right time, but you should have just told him. If you had sat him down and explained things sooner, you probably would have had a better shot at getting him to listen.”
“I know!” I shout. “I know that! But what can I do now?Fuck, I feel like I’m dying.” I grab the closest photo to me, finding Elijah staring out of the window at Tabitha’s Place as he smiles softly.
“Deep breaths, Row. Do you need me to book a ticket? I can come out. It’s almost your birthday soon, anyway, so I can come celebrate.”
“No,” I rush out. “Don’t come. That would probably make things worse. I just… I can’t lose him, Marissa. I refuse. But what can I do? Tell me. Please, for the love of god, tell me what I can do to fix this.”
“I don’t know,” she whispers, and I can hear her own sorrow reacting to mine. “I wish I did, I really do. But I think all that’sleft to do now is wait. If it’s really meant to be, he’ll come back to you, right?”
“You think so?” I ask, and my voice sounds small and so unlike myself that it makes me sob again.
“Yeah, honey. I think so. So don’t freak out too badly, okay? Things could still work out.” After a moment, she adds, “Just, maybe don’t follow him around anymore. If he notices, it might make things worse.”
“Okay.” We sit in silence for a moment, and I stare at the destruction around me. “I’ll give it two months, and if he still wants nothing to do with me, I’m leaving. I’ll go to Canada if I have to, but I won’t stay here.”
