The impact of that—those words—is like the last few weeks crumpling in, on a single moment.
“Wh—what?” she whispers.
At the edge of the bed, Aleksandr holds his head in his hands.
“Just get out,” he says. “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t play these fucking games anymore.”
Lili tries to reach for him, the mattress shifting under her knees. “Aleksan—”
“Get out.”
A recoil: instant, but immediate—her body from his, his body from hers; repelling, wounded.
Lili scrambles from the bed. Unsteady, she finds her clothes, and pulls them on fast, trying to hold onto some last bit of strength. Somehow, she kicks on her shoes, grabs her bag, and runs out of the loft.
She’s out the building, down the street—a blur past Louis, shoving the door open—before she takes a harsh gasp of air—inhaling the city noise of this specific street, gallery staff, delivery people—before her breathing starts to break, before she is crying, she is finally, fully, and utterly crying.
There’s a small park a few blocks down. It is lush with green trees, cobblestones, and pigeons. A few businessmen in suits walk through, on phone calls. Tribeca moms push prams, and a pair of teenagers lean against a tree, sharing tangled white headphones as they listen to music.
She’s cold as she finds a bench. Her sweater is missing, she realizes. As she looks behind her, cheeks wet with tears, there’s a sharp twinge in her throat.
She sits down, and rests a hand on her chest, trying to be gentle.
You’re here,she thinks.You’re here.
The collapse of hope, even deserved, is horrendous: a horror in the body.
This arrangement had started between them in the late months of spring, May: summer descending, casting its glow—excitement, loose possibilities, light consequences. The course of it feels like a scent she can remember, that brings it all rushing back, as she sits here, as summer ends, without him.
Children run through the park, disturbing pigeons that fly off into the trees. The grass is spotty; earth pokes through the scatter of fresh seeds left by the parks department. A sudden rise of laughter makes Liliflinch; the two kids leaning against the tree, sitting with their knees knocked together, are joking about something.
She tries to grasp at landmarks: a few more months, graduation, early thesis defense. Then maybe she can leave the city, move on elsewhere? Possibilities, plans; desperate, meaningless things, but she has to imagine a life onwards. She made a mistake—a mistake, she wants to scream—but her intention doesn’t matter, not anymore.
Lili inhales, a deep breath ragged with sobs. It hurts, but she needs to feel the edges of this pain; to know she will live through it, with it, and eventually past it. She will live her life in the aftermath, but she will not be the aftermath. There are years ahead of her, and that cannot be a dark, cold thing to her.
Itcannot.
She needs to believe it—that there are other places, and other bodies, and a full life for her, still out there. Because otherwise, what else is there? It’s a hope she must cultivate, that there will be things, still, some pale, faded brightness, worth having in her future; not the things she’d wanted—the things she still wants, as she cries on this bench—but there will be places for her, eventually, past the ruin of her mistakes. Even if the fit is too loose, or too tight, and no one will ever quite touch her like he did.
But is that not—is that not better, than never having known each other?
It is difficult to release the instinctive flinch she feels, caught in her skin: constantly poised for the crash, for the bright to turn dark, for the things she loves to be snatched away from her. But as she sits here, with tears clustering her chin, she finds she has no energy left to brace. She can only let go, revealing something tired and small, but there: She is still there. And even sitting here, in the ruins, it does not feel like a left behind, like it always has. It feels like loneliness, yes, alone—her in the world, with her own two feet, and her own two hands, and her own one breath—but a thing she could accept, rather than something that will break her.
Actions, and decisions; choices made, and the agency in that.
And yes, the wrong actions—choices that were mistakes—but still, a thing she did, rather than a thing that happened to her.
She hears footsteps on cobblestones. Someone walks into the park. There’s traffic, white noise buzzing on Sixth Avenue behind her.
“Lili.”
A familiar voice. She looks up, to see Aleksandr standing in front of her.
Tears immediately sting; he must want her entirely gone, out of his neighborhood, followed to make sure she’d leave. “Sorry, sorry—” Her voice breaks, as she swipes at her tears roughly. “I’ll leave, sorry—”
He sighs, near exhausted. Then he sits down beside her, on the bench.
“You left your sweater.”
