I remember coming home that night. Coming home to our house and finding her gone.
Finding out that she had left. Taken all her things and left.
I didn’t understand at first.
What had she done?
Where had she gone?
What could I have done to make her stay?
All these questions raced around in my head as I tried to get a hold of her.
She didn’t answer her phone that night. She didn’t want to talk to me. She had left and I would have to come to terms with that.
I would have to understand that she was gone and wasn’t coming back. That this was the bed I had made for myself and I was going to have to lie in it.
But I couldn’t understand why, I couldn’t understand what it was I had done.
I didn’t understand what I could have done different.
I needed to talk to her. I needed to understand why she had left. But she didn’t answer. She didn’t care about me anymore. Or maybe she did. maybe she loved me and that was she left.
Maybe she left because she loved me so much that she couldn’t stay and watch as I slowly killed myself. Maybe she was right in leaving that night.
It was for the best.
Not for me.
But the best thing for her.
And I hope that I can understand that one day.
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Categories: flash fiction