That was twelve years ago. Twelve years of shared toothbrushes and silent arguments about the thermostat. Twelve years of her singing off-key while chopping onions, of me leaving coffee mugs on the windowsill until they grew a small forest of mold. We built a whole vocabulary of silence: the tightness in her jaw meaning I’m fine when she wasn’t, the way I’d tap my wedding ring against a glass meaning I’m sorry before I could say the words.
“Me too,” I say. “I’m terrified. But be terrified with me. Just… stay.” tabitha stay with me
She doesn’t turn around. She is ten feet away, her back to me, the hood of her yellow raincoat already dark with water. The suitcase in her hand is the small one, the overnight bag she used to pack for her mother’s house every other weekend. It looks wrong in the rain. Too small for a whole life. That was twelve years ago
“Then let me be late,” I say. “Let me be late and awful and whatever else I’ve been. But don’t leave. Don’t get in that car. Because once you do—” My throat closes up. I swallow. “Once you do, you take everything. The good mornings. The burnt toast. The way you hum when you think no one is listening. You take all of it, and I’ll be standing in this doorway for the rest of my life, saying it to no one.” We built a whole vocabulary of silence: the
The wind shifts. A branch from the oak tree scrapes the roof like a fingernail down a chalkboard. I take a step off the porch. The gravel bites into my feet. I don’t care.