People still hate me for a breakup that happened almost a year ago. This was never meant to be public property. Everyone wishes to be a part of the fairytale couple, the one that everyone knows, everyone sees. The couple that only holds hands in public, that is beautiful and appropriate, the couple that doesn't fight in public and apologizes immediately. The Perfect Couple. It's not all it's cracked up to be. People see the good side, and they expect it to be that way. Pretty soon you can't even be honest with each other in private because you love them so much, you know because you tell people that. You have always said it because you felt it. It's hard to tell when it becomes a habit, but it happens, sure enough. You can't fight, you can't even argue. Doesn't matter if he says something that hurts, you can't cry, not very much, because you love him and surely he didn't mean it. You can't speak your mind, and when you do, he can't sulk, because he loves you and you two are an "us" that will last forever. You stop planning your future because why bother when you know you're going to grow up and be the officer's wife. You forget those people you called friends, because he is the one you will spend your future with, and he is the one you need to stay close to, because everyone else won't be with you when you go away. Then one day, something triggers it. It is the epiphany. Somewhere in your brain, the question emerges, a rattling, rasping whisper, almost scraping, like nails on the sidewalk, whining high-pitched above the loving melodies that dominate your cranium. It's the question that haunts you day and night, screaming, "Who am I?" and you start to wonder what you have become. You start asking questions. First you question his motives. Why did he fall for me? Why does he stay with me? Does he just want the sex? Is that why? And then the answers all come back perfect, and when you have exhausted all hopes of finding a fault in him, you ask yourself: Why am I here? What do I want for my future? Pretty soon your questions echo back from the depths of your heart, and the answers don't follow, because your heart can't speak and your brain can't supplement with logic when it doesn't even know the person asking the questions, or the person answering. You turn to those shadows in the background, the ones who have watched you, the great Us, dancing in the spotlight, eternal and beautiful. You find the long-lost friends, so afraid that they can't accept your presence after so long. Then the true ones let you in, and you divulge the secrets that hide behind the walls of your fortress. You soon find that nobody has an answer for you, because this isn't a problem anyone else can solve. Days and nights and days go by, and you wither under the lights in the eyes of people watching, waiting, expecting....something. Then one day, he notices your puzzled expression. He asks what is wrong, and the automatic response comes to the front of your brain: Nothing is wrong. Tell him nothing's wrong, you just had a rough day. Tell him you have a headache. Be a good girlfriend, please don't ruin this. Don't......And you shut it out, just once. Because he loves you so very much and you can take this on with him, because he knows you better than your friends do, and he can help you. You spill it all, even the daggers that you've tried to keep hidden in the back of your throat, all the ones you've almost given up but never could, because you love him, and if you love someone, you would rather let the daggers cut off your head than scratch his heart. The daggers fly out, so fast you can't count them because all you can see is blurs of light, so you wipe the tears from your eyes because you hope that when your vision is clear again you can look him in the eye and know he still loves you. Then you see it: all the pain you were afraid to ever let touch him, it's already welled up in his eyes, it's rolling down his cheeks and it can never be put away. The pain isn't going to evaporate like the scalding water freefalling into his lap. That lap where you used to sit. You still have the picture on your desk, where he's in the recliner and you're curled up over his lap, kissing him on the cheek, and you're both smiling so big that the angels couldn't have done it better. He sits there, and he just stares back at you, his handsome face crumpled like the McDonald's wrapper on your floorboard, and you could run into the kitchen and impale yourself on one of the butcher knives because you never meant to hurt anyone so bad. You could just run in there, it's only a few feet, he'd never know. But he's sitting there, and it would be so selfish. You tell yourself to hold him, to try and explain just what you meant when you said you felt empty. You "felt empty." How cliche. How could you have been so callous? But you said it, and it has to be fixed, there's got to be a way. Just like when you broke grandma's favorite china plate. There had to be a way to superglue it just right, and she'd never know. But grandma isn't blind, and he's not a sheet of slate to wipe clean after what you've written. But you've got to try. Come on, just try to hold him. You scream at your muscles to move, but all you can do is look down at the legs underneath you, and know that you're sitting on a mound of lead, that you'd never get there in time, not if you could have leapt to him negative five minutes ago, pre-apocalypse. And then there's a new voice in your head, and it whispers: what about your pain? remember that? maybe if he could just see it, he would stop crying and help you. What a selfish thought, but it's there. He asks if this is the end, and all you can do is nod. He begs, but you've been deafened by the cacophony in your ears. He leaves you sitting there, facing your couch, where he was sitting. He trudges to the door, but you know he can't see for all the tears because his walk is aimless. Or it could just be aimless because you just stole the best thing in his life and threw it back at mach three, straight into his face. He pauses at the door, and you feel yourself go to him. He asks for one last kiss. Maybe he thinks that if you see how much he cares, you will take it back. But the sound inside your mind is so thick, and the loudest thought of all stands out: The Rubicon was an hour ago. He finally drives away, and you watch the wheels turn. Then you sit in a corner of the living room, the dark corner that nobody notices when they come home. Thank God nobody's home, what have you done? Fix it. Pick up the phone and fix it all. No. Can't go back, he'll never forgive this. I'll never forgive this. I just puked my guts up on the street in front of him, in front of the world, as my mom used to say, "in front of God and everybody." There it is, all that was holding up my skin, and now he can see it. Now you both can see it, and it's disgusting because it's all so horrible. So false. Then the next day comes, and the questions start. It's been almost a year, and they never quite stopped.
