breaking up in New York

“You have to say something.”

We’ve done the exchange, his blue electric toothbrush and maroon toiletries bag for my naked hardcover book, the jacket left behind on its shelf, yet instead of leaving his apartment I leaned back against his bedroom wall, my shoulders pressed to the plaster and my feet a meter away from it. He stands perpendicular to me, his shoulder above and diagonal to mine, inadvertently blocking my view of his bedroom door. Or perhaps it was on purpose. He moves to stand in front of me and I can tell from the way his lips work themselves that this is going to be a long night. Our bodies are inches apart, forcing me to tilt my head all the way back to meet his gaze, and the air between us is warm. I want it gone. 

He begins to talk but I interrupt, “I’m sorry, can you sit down? It’s just easier, with the height.” He nods, and while I intended to stay in my place glued to the wall, having used the more pointed you rather than the collective we on purpose, I allow him to guide me to his bed instead, both of us sitting with one leg extended towards the floor and the other pulled up into ourselves as we face each other on his comforter. He keeps my fingers within his and I don’t pull them away. While he talks, his fingers move along my arm as if he was playing chords, cool to the touch and comforting to an extent I can’t describe.

I realized he was planning to end things when I woke up to a text from 2:24am and I know in this moment we both wish he wouldn’t, but for all of the reasons pouring out of his mouth he has to and I understand that. His pauses serve as proof that this is harder for him than I thought it would be and further emphasize why I am going to regret this for the rest of my life.

He finishes his explanation, and while his wording is more subtle the underlying message is clear: I’m emotionally invested in this, which means you have power in my head, and I can’t risk any distractions right now. His self-control is still admirable despite being the downfall of my existence.

I realize after a moment that all I’ve done is stare at him. I want to tell him, you undo me, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. I want to promise him that it will never happen again, that having this conversation is my confirmation that healthy communication is possible, that it has washed away all of my insecurities and he is a person I know I can be vulnerable with, but I can’t bring myself to say the words. Another beat passes before I apologize for not knowing the “right” thing to say. He proceeds to tell me that it’s okay, that there is no “right” response, that I don’t have to say anything at all. “Can I be blunt?” I ask. He nods. I’m vomiting before I have time to consider, “I’ve never had a guy end things with me and it’s just a lot to process. So I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. But I want to say something. I just need a moment. To think. I’m sorry.” 

I mentally pinch myself. 

When I was 12-years-old, my 7th grade English and history teacher gave me the single best piece of advice I’ve ever received: Don’t write the way you talk. Her point was to be specific and concise, and over time my more thoughtful texts began to read as essays and each fleeting thought in my brain became part of a larger script, but the words which leave my mouth remain inconsistent with the movie in my head regardless of how many times I write, rehearse, workshop, and rewrite the scene. I’ve lost track of which draft this final taping is.

His gaze is unraveling me and my mind is, of course, completely blank.

“I’m sorry,” I breathe again.

“It’s okay,” he promises, and he’s trying not to smile. “I’m honestly not surprised by that.”

The dread built up in my abdomen, buried somewhere deep in the space between my half-capacity lungs, finally stills after fourteen hours of manifestation. The waves that had been crashing through my nerves all day finally freeze. The fire in my body doesn’t dissipate, but I already know that it won’t for a very long time.

Once again he tells me that it’s okay. I tell him that it’s not, because this is over.

He asks me if I can stay for a bit. I tell him that I can.

At one point I call it a breakup and he looks at me, “Is this a breakup?”

I hesitate for a millisecond. We weren’t dating and we were never going to date, yet this was still a relationship between two people in the simplest definition of the word.

“Well, I don’t know what else to call it.”

It feels like a breakup.

It hurts more than my last breakup.

He asks if we can cuddle. I tell him that’s not fair, which he accepts, ready to let me leave with grace, but I move onto his bed anyway, knowing where this is heading and knowing that I should stop it while also knowing that neither of us will.

I lift my head from his shoulder to look at him. “Are we thinking about the same thing?”

He nods.

I lean ever-so-slightly forward and he leans the rest of the way.