She knows now that she doesn’t have anyone else to blame, but herself.
She used to wax lyrical about how she wants to be alone, to figure herself out, but is the first to jump back into role as soon as their scene is up.
She can’t help the way she holds out a hope that this time it’ll be different.
It never is.
She pushes the send button, knowing his response is likely to be the same as it always it – one of anger, with harsh and nasty words to prove his point. He swears when he gets angry, although she’s asked him not to. She’s warned him a hundred times not to use that kind of language – “I hate it!” - and if he does he’ll never hear from her again.
He still does it.
Shows how seriously he takes her threats. Shows how much she means them.
It’s a sort of social faux-suicide attempt, not meant with the intention of death, but purely as a means of testing how alive she is, he is, they are.
She presses send and she knows what is about to ensue. The same argument as before, it’s always the same.
He’s hurt her. He’s sorry. He’s trying. He’s trying his heart out. He’s tired of trying. He’s finished with it all, with her. He’s done.
She’s been hurt. She’s forgiven him. She just has trouble trusting. She’s trying. She’s trying her heart out. She just can’t trust him. She’s scared.
He’ll leave her. She’s done.
They are meant to be together. He knows it. She knows it. Why do they try so hard then to pull it all apart? That’s all they’ve ever done, be apart.
They’ve never actually been together.
Which begs the questions, why does she believe they’re meant to be?
She doesn’t know. It’s just a feeling. Perhaps that’s why she’s so frivolous with her words. Perhaps that why she pushes the send button, because she know it’ll never mean the end. Not for good, anyway.
Only this time, things are different. From the moment she pushes send, something is wrong. The veins beneath her skin ripple in the anticipated moment of when they each begin to speak their lines. His lines don’t come. There is anger, that’s for sure. But it isn’t the same. His words are more harsh than usual, but she refuses to cry… He can’t really mean them. He never does.
Except, this time…
This time, when he says he’s done, she finds she believes him.
She sits for a moment. Her head is in the thick of it. A white fog has moved in, stinging her eyes, and… What’s this? A tear? That can’t be.
She’s still trying to understand why it’s all so different this time, when suddenly out come the tears. She’s never cried this much before. Not for him. She does cry, but never with a gut-wrenching pain that stings her throat and leaves her sobbing. She finds herself inconsolable.
Because it’s never been the end before. Not with him.
And then it hits her. You can’t trust that someone will love you forever.
Not when you fly your dirty laundry so high up in the air.
And you can’t claim you were right, when you pushed and pushed and pushed him to leave you, claiming that it was because “you knew eventually he would”…
Because he wouldn’t have. Not if you’d let him stay. Not if you’d let him love you. He wouldn’t have.
And in that moment, she understands why it’s all so different.
It’s because he has gone.
And she is alone.
And he isn’t coming back. Not this time.