Disclaimer: Characters contained do not belong to me.
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It is not a long drive from the lab to your place. Any other time I would be, what you might call, apprehensive. Any other time, I would be what you might call confused. Any other time, I would be driving the opposite way. Yet there is nothing special about today. We didn't fight. You didn't give me one of your "you-are-despicable-and-I-can't-believe-how-I-could ever-love-you" looks, not one of your "I am going to walk away from your life and you will die all alone and you can die all alone for all I care" looks, not one of your fake "great"s, fake "thank you"s, fake "fine"s that always manage to morph me into a seven year old version of myself, having to look into my mother's eyes after breaking her favorite vase. Today was nothing special. But the waves eat away at the rock slowly, and it is not one big crush that is the rock's undoing.
I have to get used to my new self before I see you, yet more and more streets disappear in my window and I don't have much time. I never had much time, I realize now, and I should have rehearsed. I feel like I owe you an explanation. A recount and inventory check of all that I have been storing in years of evidence bags to be dealt with later, to be analyzed, dissected, to be run through the database of lovers' quarrels and movie scenes and song lyrics and matched. I never thought "later" would come, but here I am. Maybe I will say, in what, two minutes, to your face: "I'll get you an explanation". "What difference does it make, I'm still...", maybe you'll say, leaving me to wonder if I ever will have your capacity to love. I'll say, "it makes a difference to me". It's amazing and sad at the same time that I need only to recycle what we already have to make a perfect relationship.
My hands are sweaty on the steering wheel. One right turn (after all the wrongs), and I am in front of your building. I can't tell if my heart is beating like it does because I am old and the stairs take a toll on me, or because of you. I don't want to think about the first possibility and walk away. So here I am, a wooden door between me and my new life. And I will admit that I am here because of selfish reasons. In the end it is all about me, Sara, it always was. If I could piece myself back together, there is a good chance I'd be running the hell out of here this very moment. But I can't tell which pieces are mine and which are yours anymore. So I stand here and say the four words that I was ever able to substitute for the three words you always wanted to hear:
Please...open...the...door.