Okay, so I know I should be working on But I Can't Do It Alone (and on about ten assignments for uni), but this just kind of happened. Fair warning: It's different from what, or rather how I normally write, and I don't even know why, but just bear with me and my little experiment here, okay? It's inspired by the The Script song of the same name, and it's kind of depressing, and melancholic, and weird, but I hope you like it anyway. xx

First, you think the worst is a broken heart

What's gonna kill you is the second part

And the third is when your world splits down the middle

And fourth, you're gonna think that you fixed yourself

Fifth, you see them out with someone else

And the sixth is when you admit you may have fucked up a little

— The Script

I

"This is not working," she says out of nowhere when you get home from work one night, and for one agonizing second you don't understand what she means by that, but then you realize, and your whole world starts to crumble right in front of your eyes. She's breaking up with you, and you didn't see it coming at all, so you say nothing, and, instead, try not to cry. There's this look in her eyes you've never seen before, like someone has died, and it scares the living shit out of you, because you don't understand. You never ask her if there's someone else, if it's him, or if she doesn't love you anymore just because.

She's still in her work clothes, but has abandoned the heels at the front door, so she's a tiny bit smaller than you are right now. She doesn't say anything after that, just goes on with preparing dinner, which almost drives you insane, because you have no idea what's even happening. What you have is good. It's breakfast in bed on Sundays, and "be careful," and the most powerful magic of all. You're happy, for the first time in forever, really, and you thought she's too, but, apparently, you've been wrong with that all along. So you just stand there like the idiot you are, while the flowers you bought on your way home to surprise her lie forgotten on the sideboard in the foyer.

Dinner is a tense affair, because it's just the two of you tonight. Normally, Tuesday is date night, so your son is at his grandparents', but, obviously, date night won't happen today. She tries to start a conversation several times, but you just shovel the food she made (and that is, as always, amazing) into your mouth and ignore her. The fact that you're technically not a couple anymore, that she gave up on you, even though she promised she never would, still hasn't completely registered with you, because it doesn't make sense (you actually checked if it's the first of April, but it's not—it's September). She has barely touched her plate, but you're done already, so you get up, go to the kitchen, rinse your plate (because she prefers it that way), and put it into the dishwasher. You only realize she has followed you when you turn around and almost bump into her. She tries to talk to you again, begs you to answer her, but you don't, because you still have no idea what to say. So instead you go into the living and turn on the television, because it's Thursday and you want to see the newest episode of Grey's Anatomy. She joins you on the couch at some point, but she doesn't try to talk to you again, doesn't lean against you like she normally does. You can feel her eyes on you, though, and it irritates you enough that you don't even pay attention to who Shonda is killing off this week.

Later that night, when you're getting ready to go to sleep, she doesn't say anything, doesn't ask you to, but you grab your pillow anyway and mumble something about the guest bedroom. It almost sounds like a plea when she calls your name in response. It sounds like "don't leave," and "stay with me," and you just want to scream at her, because this is her fault, she's the one who gave up on you. You want to be angry, but you just feel empty, so you sigh, defeated, and quietly close the door behind you once you're out in the hallway.

II

You don't really want to tell anyone that it has ended, that she has basically left you for no actual reason at all (well, that's what you think, anyway). Because it's another relationship gone wrong, one more person who gave up on you. But you tell your dad, eventually, who just looks at you like you're this kicked puppy, and gives you a hug. It doesn't really help with anything, but you thank him anyway, because he's your dad, and he's trying.

It's way harder to tell your son, though. He's picked up on the fact that something is wrong already, of course, because he's smart, and perceptive, and amazing (and you are complete shit at hiding the fact that you're sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms instead of in the master one where you belong). So you try to carefully broach the topic at dinner one night, when you don't have any more energy to keep up the charades. He's upset, because his moms are splitting up after everything seemed so perfect for the past two years, except it never has been. You and her are like sparks, and even the love you have shared—maybe still share, somehow—hasn't managed to keep away the fire that burned everything to the ground. You promise him that he'll still see both of you, that he can stay with each of you separately on alternating weeks once you find a new apartment. He wants to know what has happened, why this is happening, and you have to fight back tears, because you don't know, because you're asking yourself the same damn questions. Both of you look at her to say something, to explain what went wrong, but she just looks down onto her plate before she excuses herself from the table.

So you're left alone with your son, who—even though he's a teenager now and pretends he doesn't need his mothers anymore—looks so small, and sad, and staggered that your heart breaks all over again, because he's losing his family too.

III

You pick up your stuff from your—her—house on a rainy Monday night, which is kind of ironic, because you moved in on a bright Sunday morning that feels like it's been decades ago, but now it's pouring, and everything is shit. She has packed your stuff into boxes, neatly labeled with what is in them. It's not much, just a few clothes, some books, and an old boombox, because, growing up in foster care, you have learned that, oftentimes, less is more.

You don't really talk, because you have no idea what to talk about other than the fact that she broke you although she promised to never purposefully hurt you when you started this relationship. All of this still seems so wrong, like some cruel prank that has gotten out of hand.

She hovers over you while you pack one box after the other into the truck you borrowed from your dad, because your own car isn't big enough. It takes a bit longer than strictly necessary, since you're stalling, although you don't want to admit it. Maybe she'll still change her mind, you think like some stupid child, but of course she doesn't, so, eventually, the last box finds its way out of the mansion and onto the back of the truck. Your new apartment is halfway between her house and your parents' place, and it's affordable, and bright, and spacious, and you would love it, if the circumstances that made you rent it in the first place were different.

She follows you outside, and you kind of hate her for it, because that makes saying goodbye to the house—saying goodbye to your family—even harder. It's awkward again—you're just standing in front of each other, and nobody says a word, until she suddenly puts her arms around you and pulls you into a hug. You didn't expect the physical contact, so you're petrified for a moment, before you hug her back. Your hand is in her neck, and your nose in her hair, and it's so familiar, and comfortable, and perfect, you never want to let go. But she does, at some point, and then you're just standing in front of each other awkwardly again, because you still think that she'll maybe change her mind, that maybe she'll realize that you are better together.

After a while, she says that she's sorry, and you reply you're sorry too, before you get into the car and drive away, and her reflection in the rear-view mirror gets smaller and smaller.

IV

At some point, you think you're okay, that you're over it, because you didn't cry in like a week, and because you didn't have way too much to drink since last Saturday (it's Tuesday today). You barely think about her anymore; only when you're lying awake at night, and when you're at work, and when you're breathing. But you've pulled yourself at least somewhat together—you're working like a maniac, and you started training for a marathon—so that's something, you guess. Maybe you can be friends, can go back to co-parenting your son, while trying to out sass each other every chance you get. You've been there already, so you don't see a reason why you can't go back to it (except for the fact that you're still in love with her, and she just walked out on you).

There's a town meeting, and you attend, because you're the sheriff after all, and you can be professional, and you don't even care about what happened anymore (that much). She looks good, all glowing and perfect, and you know you look like shit, so you try to hide behind the printout of the town budget or something that was in front of you on the table. It kind of works, though you feel like an idiot, until she addresses you directly, and you literally jump, which is completely embarrassing. She gives you a stern look, and you return what you hope is an apologetic smile, before she asks her question again, and you answer something that makes you sound like you actually know what's going on.

She holds you back by the elbow when you want to leave after the meeting is over to ask if you're okay, and you want to laugh, because, really, she has no right to ask stuff like that—not anymore—so you tell her you're fine, rip your arm from her hand a little too harshly, and get out of town hall as fast as you can. You know she knows that it's bad when you say you're fine, because it goes good—ok—miserable—fine with you, and, also, how does she expect you to feel anything else than completely horrible after what happened. But you're over her already, so it's not like you care, anyway.

She calls you later, but you pretend you're busy and ignore your iPhone that shows you a photo of her for almost thirty seconds (you took it on your first anniversary, because she looked amazing—even more so than on regular days). There's two missed calls, a voicemail, and three texts when you check your phone again a few hours later. For a second, your heart speeds up, because maybe she's changed her mind, maybe she has realized her mistake and wants you back (and you instantly hate yourself for even thinking that, because you're fine without her, thanks very much). Turns out she hasn't and, consequently, doesn't, because the voicemail is your mother asking if you can pick up some more sour cream for dinner that night, and the three text messages are from your son, who wants to know if he can sleep over at his friend's place tonight since it's Friday, then tells you to answer your goddamn phone, and then goes on to inform you that he asked his other mother about it and it's okay.

You type out a quick affirmation to your mother, and wish your son a fun night, before your thumb hovers over the call button next to her number. Maybe it's important town business, you think (although you know it's not, because then she would have just called the station), or maybe you're just pathetic and really want to hear her voice. In the end, you don't call her (and it only took you thirty minutes to get to that decision), because—while you may not be over her just yet—you can figure out how to cope by yourself.

V

You see them at Granny's one day. They're in one of the booths by the windows, and share some ice cream like two obnoxious teenagers. It's so incredibly ridiculous, you want to laugh, but then you remember how the two of you used to steal each other's food all the time, and you try not to cry.

You can't even blame her for leaving, can't even hate her for it, because, in the end, you just want her to be happy, and if she can't be happy with you, who are you to force her to stay because you're selfish, and in love, and despise him so, so much.

Maybe it was just a matter of time, though. Maybe it was inevitable that she and he end up together, because they are Fairy Dust approved soul mates, or something. Whatever, you still want to punch him in the face. No big deal. You think of the teenager that lives with you every other week, and what has to be the cutest kid on the planet, and the nauseatingly perfect patchwork family they all make, although your son and his mother were supposed to be your forever family.

The grilled cheese in front of you is cold by now, and looks kind of gross, anyway, so you push the plate away. You're not really sure if you should get up and leave, or stay and stare, so you decide to allow yourself one more lingering glance before you go home to watch whatever weird shit is on TLC. When you look up, her eyes are fixed on your face, and, for a brief moment, you wonder how long she's been watching you like that, but then he says something, and she turns her attention back to him. The smile she gives him is fake though—you know because it doesn't reach her eyes, and even though you're halfway across the diner you can see it, because when she smiles, really smiles, it lights up the whole damn room.

You watch as he lifts the spoon to her mouth, and she wraps her lips around it. You've always loved her lips; they're soft, and satiny, and feel amazing on your skin when she trails open mouthed kisses down your torso. For a brief moment, you wonder if she does that with him as well, if she makes love to him like she made love to you, all red hot passion, and delicate fingers. Regardless, he's probably not as good at reading her—in any way, really, but especially when it comes to sex—as you are, because he's a moron, and probably just keeps pushing his little friend in and out of her until he's finished (yikes). You are ninety-nine percent sure he'll never figure out how to make her squirt. Not like you do, anyway.

VI

You don't know why you even went over to the mansion in the first place, why you knocked on the door, and politely asked him if you could speak to her. You don't know why he's such a dick, either, why he won't even let you into the house that, not even three months ago, has been your house, too—your home. But now they are living here, and, apparently, you're no longer welcome. What you also don't know is what exactly made you punch him right in the face, all you know is that there's blood running down from his nose, and he looks somewhere between pretty pissed, and pretty constipated (the latter one is nothing new, though). You really hope that she truly isn't home, and he hasn't lied to you about it, because if she saw this, she would completely lose it for sure. But, of course, the universe hates you, and you hear her car before you actually see it. It's a new one she's had for only a few weeks—a freaking Minivan—but, because you're pathetic, you already know what it sounds like.

You don't turn around to look at her when she gets out, because there's blood on your knuckles, and your right hand is still clenched into a fist, and you don't know what to say to justify what you've done. The sound of her heels on the concrete floor comes closer and closer (you're glad she doesn't have the kids with her, because this is bad enough already; Henry really doesn't need to know about it), and you just want to disappear, but the ground doesn't open, you don't poof away in a cloud of smoke. Instead, you stand there like the stupid nitwit you are, waiting for her to, once and for all, kick you out of town.

Apparently, she has just gotten groceries, because she is carrying several bags with all sorts of stuff in them, and struggles a bit to get it all through the door. He moves to help her, but she shrugs his hand away, and you can't help the triumphant smirk that forms on your lips, because he's even more of an idiot than you are. She deposits the bags inside on the ground right next to where a few pairs of shoes stand, and then turns back around. You don't know what you're supposed to do, but you're smart enough to know not to say anything. He tries, though, because he's a moron and doesn't know her at all, and, as expected, she snaps and orders him to go upstairs and clean his face (and it feels like you've won, even though you don't exactly know what the price is). Once he's gone, she just looks at you, slightly shakes her head, and says your name in that specific way that never fails to make you feel like a complete idiot. Sometimes, you wonder why she even still tolerates you, why she still talks to you (sometimes, at least), and lets you take care of your son. Sometimes, you wonder why she even loved you at all. Because you know you're complicated, and dull, and, most of the time, an utter failure. You know all this, but you keep fucking up regardless. And, once again, she just stands there and looks at you with something that might be described as fondness. You know you still love her, because you're pathetic, and, right now, you have hope she might still have feelings for you as well. Rationally, you know she doesn't—she can't—because she's with him now, and they're absolutely perfect for each other, and oh so happy.

She grabs you by the elbow then to basically drag you inside the house, where she deposits you on one of the chairs at the kitchen island, and goes to grab the first aid kit. You think it's funny how she helps you and not him, even though it's more than obvious who punched whom in the face here, but you sure as hell won't complain about it. She returns a few moments later with some band aids, bandages, and what you guess is antiseptic agent (you're certain about it when she carefully puts it on a paper towel and then presses that onto your knuckles, because it stings like a bitch). There's still no talking, it's just her carefully tending to your bruised skin, like you've seen her do with your son a thousand times. She holds your hand the whole time, and although you think that it's either to keep it in place, or because she doesn't even realize, you savor the contact. It still feels familiar, comfortable, and when she's done and moves to tidy up, you hold her back by tightening your grip on her fingers.

She looks at you then, and her eyes are so big, and brown, and full of emotion that your heart speeds up. You've always loved them, because they tell you more about her than she does herself, but right now you don't know what they want to say. She says something, though. It's your name, and it comes out as a quiet plea.

You're actually holding hands now, and it's just like back when everything was still okay between you. Looking at each other morphed into downright staring, and it's so intense—especially because no one says a word—that you're afraid you're going to kiss her. As always, she seems to be able to read your mind. She doesn't kiss you on the mouth, but she lifts your hand and presses her lips to your bandaged knuckles.

"Please stop fighting for me," she whispers eventually, and you clearly hear the unvoiced "because I might just come back to you if you don't," before she extracts her fingers from yours and turns to leave.