But we never speak, so it's hard (to)
Do we really want to live this way?
Cause all I really want is you to stay
Comatose / Mikky Ekko
It started out perfect. You asked her to move in, and her smile blinded you. Her 'yes' came with a kiss, and her 'definitely'came with hands roaming the skin under your shirt. You could never resist smiling back, and you knew actions spoke louder than words, so you let yourself sink into her soft find an apartment in Manhattan. It's a shoebox in disguise, with cracked walls and peeling paint, but the light made her eyes impossibly blue, and when she looked at you, did you really ever have a choice?
When the landlord hands you the keys, there are two, and yours is chipped at the edge, but hers was painted a bright, obnoxious turquoise, so you clamp your mouth shut and take them wordlessly. She was the type of girl that wouldn't complain—because 'it could be worse', she always reasoned—and you were grateful for that, because it meant living in a cardboard box that smelled of old shoes and the decay of dreams left unfulfilled was okay by her. You loved that she could make you feel enough. You'd never felt that before.
Thirty-three days later, you both had fallen into an easy routine. In the mornings, you'd munch on burnt toast and sit on the floor where your kitchen should be, because the furniture hadn't arrived yet, and she'd kiss you on the cheek before leaving for the school she taught at. You stayed at home, working on your music. You were nowhere now, but you had high hopes—you were just a few more months shy of a contract. After all, this was a new chapter of your lives.
In the afternoons, if both of you weren't busy, you'd stop by with lunch and you'd eat in the cafeteria of her building. You listened to her babble, because she was beautiful when she babbled—of course, she was always beautiful, but this was the kind of beautiful you knew she didn't know about—and it made you happy. You loved that she could make you happy. She's prattle on about the kids she loved and the kids that loved her, and you listened, sure, but your eyes paid more attention than your ears. If she noticed, she hadn't commented about the way you never stopped watching her mouth. Instead, she let you kiss her goodbye in her classroom before a little girl she called Emily walked in with a smile bright enough to rival hers.
She'd be home by six, in time for you to microwave leftovers to eat, this time on the bed, and it's terrible and not what you expected, but also so much more than you could hope for. You talked about everything—annoying ex-boyfriends and missing her the six hours since you'd last seen each other. Once the dishes were cleared away, she let you slip her shirt off. She let you push her onto the bed and bite her lip. She almost tasted better than she could love. As you fall asleep, she'd trace the lines on your face, whispering about her day against the noise outside your building.
What amused you, though, was how forgetful she was. She remembered everything about you, down to the embarrassing stories your mother shared with her to the way your eyelids droop when watching the morning news, but she couldn't seem to make a habit of bringing her keys with her when she leaves the flat in the mornings. You'd happily wait her return in the evenings, letting the door swing open to reveal the love of your life. She looked at you breathlessly, like you were her hero (which was preposterous, but her eyes were so blue, and you were so you) and you loved that you meant something to her.
Could you ever be her hero?
For a while, a blissful while, you thought you had gotten it right. Your music was finally getting noticed, to a point. A publicist had contacted you about signing you on. You eventually paid enough to repaint your walls, though the truck of your furniture had been sent to Mexico in place of a Taco truck that had stopped by extremely confusedly. For a while, you were happy.
With a meek smile, you thought it was funny, how she was busier than you. Just a few months ago, she hadn't even known what she was going to do. (And you want to feel jealous, but you truly can't.) You supposed you were okay with all your free time, because she'd be back in your arms by the end of the day.
Until one day, she doesn't come home. You waited up for her—you always did—but she didn't come home until four in the morning the next day. You had forgotten to eat your cold lasagna, and good riddance because it was never that good anyway, but it was her that made it taste good. You opened the door for her wearily, not having slept the last night, but she was fully rested, carrying her heels in her hand as if they were feather-light.
'Where were you last night?' you asked, but she shrugged and kissed your cheek, and you could almost taste the guilt she exuded. She reeked of it, though it could have also been the alcohol.
'The team went out for drinks,' she said shortly, getting herself a cup of water. 'I hope you didn't wait up.' She set her phone on the counter, draining the cup like it was a shot. Ironically, you wonder if she didn't have enough the night before.
'A call would have been nice,' you said, but nothing more, because fighting her made your knees weak, and that was something you'd work on, eventually. She apologized, pressing her lips against yours, and you forgive her. Did you want to forgive her?
It doesn't happen for another week, but she's started having lunches with her friends. You could stand Aubrey, the rigid blonde who now did her best to smile at you, but couldn't she have called? On Fridays, she has breakfast with them too. Your lunch always sat by your laptop unnoticed as you crane over your music. The notes didn't blend seamlessly anymore. The melody was missing something, and so were you. Idly, you wondered if this was what withdrawal felt like. She was your drug, maybe. You almost smiled at the sentiment; she probably wouldn't.
You still waited up for her at night. You'd think it was okay, given your work was at home, and you could use more work hours, but it soon got old, and it soon became a chore. Waiting for her had never felt more like an obligation. You haven't forgiven her. She doesn't come home another night, and this time she arrives home just in time to leave again. When you asked where she was, she bowed her head.
'You didn't answer the door,' she muttered.
'Maybe you should bring your key,' you spat, though you know you didn't mean it. Why did you say that? She looked hurt; almost as hurt as you felt. You missed your smile, and you wanted nothing more than to turn the corners of her mouth upwards again. You spoke before your voice could waver, before your voice could think. 'Why are you acting like this?'
'Like what? Like I have a life? You're not my dad.' It was meant as a defense, but it sounded spiteful. You flinched at the low blow. For nights at a time, she wouldn't come home, the same excuse on her lips each time. You realized you had waited for her every single night. Was there a point to it?
You remembered the way she used to look at you, and the way you used to look at her. What would you give to see all of it again?
When you first met, you were surprised that she could make you smile. When you first moved in, you were surprised that she could make you laugh. She made your heart sing louder than your mouth could. Glaring at the unmoving door now, you're surprised how lonely she could make you feel.
On a particularly rough morning, questions turned to accusations, and accusations into arguments. It had never been this bad before, and you blamed it on the liquor on her breath. You understood that you were falling out of love. Her endearing single-mindedness had become stubbornness, and her unrelenting passion became an inability to compromise. What you first loved about her wholly became the last thing you could love about her; what else was there to love?
You still tried, though. For another month. This was her, and she mattered more than anything in the world. You called each night to make sure she was safe, and she would brush you off each time, but she still answered her phone, and that was something, right? You tried to remind her to bring her keys, and she agreed each time, but still forgets it as she slips her heels on. A part of you thinks she leaves it on purpose so you'd wait up for her, so she knew she could depend on you. You wonder what the point was if she never came home anyway. You wanted to make this work; did she?
Love wasn't meant to feel this exhausting, you thought. When you voice this, she tried to kiss you again. You pushed her away roughly—maybe a bit too roughly. Her eyes are brimmed with tears, like she was the victim, and she dropped the plate in her hand. You looked at her as if defeated, and she picked another plate up to throw at you. It missed, but it still smashed against the wall behind you dangerously. There was murder in her eyes. Murder, but no guilt. Never any guilt. You felt your neck flush.
You remembered the last time she looked this angry—it was when you first tried to leave. You didn't do it then; could you do it now?
You didn't think you two would be that couple, where one smashed plates against paper-thin walls (never at her) as the other locked herself in the bathroom, covering her ears to block out her anger. Or guilt. It could still be guilt. You told yourself to calm down, that you loved her. That you cared. Your hands gently knocked against the bathroom door, pleading in a voice you had never needed to use with her before. She didn't answer; didn't bother to.
You wondered when you had gotten it all so wrong.
Eventually the night grew too old, and you slept alone for the thousandth time (though that was impossible, because you hadn't gotten more than a month's worth of sleep since she's moved in). As you drift off, you heard her footsteps tread down the hall and out the door, and you pull yourself out of stupor to check if she left her keys. She had.
This time, you went back to bed. It's her. You love her. You loved her. But you needed to take care of yourself—she doesn't need a key for a door she wouldn't enter.