It's the middle of the day and she's been gone for twelve hours. He doesn't know how he survived their separation the last time because this is killing him. He knows he fucked up, he knows he said and did the wrong thing. He knows he let her down, he knows he broke his promise to her. But what he doesn't know is how to fix it, how to bring her back. Because if he's this messed up after only twelve hours he doesn't want to know what comes next. He keeps hearing the slamming of the door when she left.
When he starts to sober up he returns to the balcony and he writes. He writes her short apology notes and long letters that he'll never let her read and bad poetry that deserves to be burned. Eventually he shreds the notes and the poems and tosses the pieces into the wind. He folds up the letters and locks them in his safe with her ring. Then he pulls out his guitar and writes her songs but the lyrics and melodies are carried away on the late afternoon breeze.
It's almost dinner time when he retreats back inside but he's not hungry even though he hasn't eaten all day. He stands in the middle of his apartment and stares at the door, willing it to open, willing her to appear. When she doesn't he turns around and trudges back to his bedroom. He sinks down onto the mattress and just sits there, unsure of himself and his purpose. It's never been clearer to him than right now in this moment of weakness and desperation how badly he needs her.
'If we can't trust one another, then the past will always hang over us and we'll never let ourselves be truly happy. Right now we're hurting each other and we can't go on like this. Have some faith in me, Billy. I love you.
- MacKenzie'
It's been the longest twelve hours of her life and she knows she could end her misery. She knows she could pick up her phone and call him or get on her computer and email him or get up off her couch and just go to him, but she can't. She's too ashamed and she's too weak and she's too afraid. She doesn't know what she'd find if she went back. She doesn't know what he would say, she doesn't know what he would do. And right now she'd rather imagine the worst than have to experience it.
When her headache becomes too much to bare she forces herself to move from the couch to the kitchen where she dry swallows four aspirin even though there's a glass of water in her hand. She stays in the kitchen for a while, her head bent down as her palms press into the cool granite countertop supporting her weight. She thinks she hears a knock at the door and she jerks her head up but she's only imagined it. He's not here and once again she has no one to blame but herself. She was the one who walked out.
It's early evening when she manages to consume a piece of toast. She can't find her phone battery and she curses her drunken stupidity. She won't survive much longer like this. He is her world, always has been, always will be. He needs to know this, he must know this. But she doesn't know how to make him see it, how to make him believe it. Haven't they suffered enough? How many times do they have to prove themselves to each other? She can't be without him, and that's what it comes down to.
"I want to believe you, but I can't! There are still mornings when I wake up and if you're not in the bed I think you're gone. There are still moments when we're together and I picture you fucking him. There are still days when I'm convinced you're going to find someone else and leave me again. I thought all that crap was gonna go away, but it hasn't! Maybe it never will."