I remember driving away from him. I knew it was over. I had given all I had to save the relationship and it wasn’t enough.
As I drove down the interstate, mile by mile gathering distance from him, I sobbed while listening to “Fix You” by Coldplay. I wished he had loved me enough to fix us.
I remembered the fight from the night before.
“I need more time. Just devote a little more or yourself to me. I can’t survive on breadcrumbs.”
I remember his angry eyes, his furious stance, his aggressive grabbing of my wrists, making me look at him while he replied.
“You’re crazy. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Just shut up, SHUT UP.”
If he just hadn’t grabbed my wrists I might have stayed. I might have blamed it all on myself. I was crazy. I was bipolar. I deserved what I got.
But the grabbing of the wrists woke me up. I knew he was done with me just as I knew there was nothing I could give him that would bring him back.
So, I fled through the west Texas desert. I fled with all of my belongings back to the only place I ever felt safe. I ran away from the only man I’ve ever given my heart to.
Seven years later, I can still feel his lips on my neck. I can feel his hand in mine. I can see his perfect smile beaming at me. I suffered immeasurable pain to have him in my life those short six months, but I don’t regret it. Even if, at the age of twenty-six, I have already experienced the great love of my life, I am at peace with that fact.
I found him. I loved him. I clung to him. And one day, with tears streaming down my face, I ran away from him; the dust kicking up behind my car, covering the past in a blanket of dirt and rubble.