Everything is a story. Everything is a song. So simple. Beautiful.
Except this.
She was willing to give me what I wanted, a proper goodbye. A romantic send-off. One last time to say all the things we wanted to say. To touch. One final time to make love. Connect.
This is what I asked for and this is what she agreed to and this is what I wanted and longed for and this was the reason I was at her door.
And couldn’t knock. My hand felt like it was made of lead. I couldn’t lift it.
I realized I’d rather leave things with the possibility of being rekindled, however slim those odds might be, than end them perfectly.
Until that moment, I didn’t think anything could be as hard as not knowing. Spending days and weeks and months apart. Were we or weren’t we? Knowing I was… was she?
I thought if we could end it like a movie, I’d somehow be able to live with it. One transcendent memory.
What a load of shit. When it ended, it would be over. Truly over after so many close calls. I’d have to walk out the door and never return. I would trade a dozen romantic endings for one real shot to be with her forever.
So I turned around and got back in my car and drove away.
From her. From the perfect ending.
So that I could spend that night alone, waiting for the call or text that I knew wouldn’t come.
And the next night, staring up at the stars.
And the next, tossing and turning.
And the next.
And the next.
Maybe that’s how you know.
I wouldn’t trade her for anything… not even her.
So simple.
Maybe everything is a story after all.