This is how you lose her, the familiar voice in your head taunts. This, here, alone on the dirty pavement, this is how you lose her. In a hail of bullets, the best night of your life transforming into your worst, this is how she slips away. It feels like such a foregone conclusion that you don't even try to call for help. You just sit there, in the dark, cradling her. Never letting her go. You'd stay right there forever if they'd let you.
Help does come, despite your inability to hope. You don't let her go until the hospital, until they make you. You release her hand and once you've lost that contact, you know that you have nothing left to lose. The shock and devastation fades and all that's left is rage. You let it swallow you whole.
The voices of people you love, people who love her, call out to you as you leave, but they can't get through. You stalk into the night, shedding the clothes still soaked in her blood as you go. You don't need to stay. You don't need to hear the words from a doctor, from someone who never knew her, from someone for whom this is just another sad night's work. You've lost her, the very best part of you, and you'll take that loss and your rage, and you will make him pay.
You will find him. You will teach him that his life was inextricably linked to hers and that he doesn't get to live, not one night longer than she does.
oOo
This is how you lose him, the realization washes over you, stealing your breath and freezing you in place. Leaving you, for once, speechless. This lie, brought to light on an average Wednesday, this is, without a doubt, how you lose him. And instead of being angry with him, you're furious at yourself because you never saw it coming. And you should know better.
He stands across from you, holding the hand you can't quite bring yourself to snatch away. There are tears in his eyes, and he's begging you to forgive. And the thing is? You could have. You love him so much, and you could have forgiven this. If only it had happened before. Before the proposal and the shooting and your father. If only.
But now it's one gut-punch too many, and you don't have it in you to accept another apology. You gather the shreds of your dignity and of the life you used to lead, and you walk away. Even though you don't know where to go. Even though all you want is to turn back and wrap your arms around him and find a way to make everything right.
But it can't be you, always making it right. It can't be you, always lighting the way. Even so, you can't stop yourself from sending a text before you drive away- "You'll be a good father."
oOo
This is how you let it go. Your eyes meet over the grave of yet another friend, and you both know you're done. Done with rage, with fear with lies, with hurt. with loss. Done with being apart. The past four months were nearly the death of you.
They were the death of your friend. As death always does, hers has cut the lives of those who are left down to the essentials. And that is what you're both thinking, in that moment when your eyes meet. These months apart have given you time to make the necessary calculations, this most recent loss has lent a sense of urgency, and now it's time to face the truth- as long as you live, you'll be able to overcome whatever comes your way. Because the two of you, you are each other's essentials.
Neither of you will remember who moves first, and it doesn't matter. All that matters is that you arrived separately, but today you will go home together.