What do you do when you’re happy? 
I write. 
What do you do when you’re sad? 
I write some more. 

In the end, it was I who broke things, I who walked away and refused to stay for the both of us, refused to play along hoping the other would break instead of, finally, for once, admitting it was over.

Until then we tried everything but telling each other the truth. You grew your hair long even though I hated it. Smoked tobacco behind my back only to turn around and kiss me with a mouthful of stale, slick saliva tainted with nicotine and shame.

And then denied it.

But I was worse. Oh, I was so much worse, spending entire nights out claiming to be at work, coming home reeking of another man’s cologne, lipstick smudged and a worn thong shoved in my purse that you’ve never even seen until then, and even as I stood in front of you, orgasm still pink on my face, all you could say was, “Welcome home.”

And that’s when I broke. That’s when I broke us, because I could no longer be what we had become: two strangers living under the same roof. Two strangers existing in different realities, joined by nothing but resentment, with nothing to look forward to but hate.

So I packed, and then I left. I paid the doorman and made sure the dog was fed. And on my way out I waited for you to say something, anything to make me want to stay.

I hoped that you remembered me. The girl who washed your clothes the first day we met. The girl who begged you to dance with her in the rain.

I hoped you remembered us. The team who once wanted to change the world together, who during lean times ate canned spaghetti in bed.

But you only looked at the ground. And I knew me staying would only mean more of the same.

So I walked out and tried to slam the door, a final dramatic gesture, a noise I could not form with my mouth. But it only caught on the carpet and slid into place.

Without a sound.