​He was there, so close to me, and I forgot how to breathe. Last week I barely thought about him. I thought I was over it. I didn’t think he’d be here, sitting right next to me, our thighs touching like he never left.
​“I’m happy right here.” He says to me, and I wonder how long he will mean it until he leaves again. It’s only a matter of time.
​“I’m happy you’re here.” I reply, and it’s not a lie. I am happy he’s here with me, but what I don’t tell him is that I’m also afraid of this. Being so close to him means that it will be taken away from me. I don’t want to know his warmth if it means that cold is only going to feel colder when he leaves me.
​I glance at the clock to see that it says it’s 4:47, and I can already feel our time escaping us. It’s running and it’s racing. I don’t know whom it’s racing, but it could be racing the entire universe, and I know it will win. Nothing beats time. We’ve tried that.
​“This is the last time,” I tell him. Right now I mean it, but I know that I will want to believe something different after this. “This is the last time we’re going to be together. There are no fourth tries. When this ones over, we’re over.”
​I’m sad when he agrees with me. He nods his head as if to say he was thinking the same thing, and I know that he means it more than I do. He grabs the TV remote and changes the channel for the 11th time in the last hour. I watch his indecision as he flips through the channels looking for something to grab his attention. I want to grab his attention, but I can already feel the impossibility of this. I’m just a channel to him; I can only hold his attention for so long at a time. I just want to hold his hand.
​He laughs. I watch him and I smile. I think to myself, that I don’t know how to lose him for good. I don’t know how to function without the knowledge of his return. I know that when he leaves this house, he will never walk back inside. I know that he’s saying what he wishes he could feel, but that he’s too mad to mean any of it. I know once he leaves here, he’s not coming back. Not really. I’m watching the way he’s mentally leaving our conversation and the way his body language is too relaxed to care. I know he doesn’t care anymore, and although I know this is true, I’m trying to think of anything else to justify his actions. But there’s nothing, I know him, and I know that.
​I’m so focused on him that it took me a while to realize that he is not focused on me at all. He’s watching the TV screen like he wants to be inside of it, anywhere but here. I’m starting to agree with him. I feel the space closing in on me and I want an excuse to leave but I know that this is the last time I will ever have with him, and I want to be here even if he doesn’t. I spend the next two hours observing him. He doesn’t really notice, and when he does, he shakes his head. I think he knows he’s going to hurt me, and I think he’s trying to convince himself that he doesn’t have to. But he does, and we both know that.
​Then he leaves. I don’t remember how he leaves, because I don’t watch him go. As soon as he’s in the car, I turn off the porch lights and I let him leave. I let him go. I walk back downstairs and I shut the lights off, and I try to sleep. Sleep is impossible, so I call him.
​“It was nice being with you again.” I tell him. He takes a while to answer, and for a little while I almost wonder if he’s going to.
​“Yeah, it was. It’s good to be back.” It’s reassurance for something that isn’t reassured. If he was anybody else I would believe him, but for the first time I don’t believe anything he says to me. There was hesitation all around him, enveloping his words.
​The next day I didn’t hear from him, but the following one I did, and the one after that I decided I never wanted to hear his voice again. I never wanted to see those bright green eyes look at me. I never wanted his hands anywhere near mine. I didn’t want a fourth chance because if we couldn’t work in three, the fourth would never change that. The fourth would never change anything.
​But then I hear him again, “Why were you so insistent that I leave?” For the first time, I think about it. I was so set on the fact that he would leave, that I drove him to it. I can’t find the words to answer him, so I don’t. I let him wonder and I begin to try to let him go. It’s been four years and I’m starting to think that the action of letting go, isn’t an action at all.

Creative Writing Project (via atsuchalossforwords)
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One of the most courageous decisions you will ever make is to finally let go of whatever is hurting your heart and soul.
Brigitte Nicole (via moonsulk)

(Source: onlinecounsellingcollege)

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socriminals:

oh my god the last sentence sAME
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He wanted tea, I was coffee.
macerendol (via soulsscrawl)

(Source: yoursixwordstory)

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1,077 notes   -   Posted 1 hour ago

…the older I get, the more I see how women are described as having gone mad, when what they’ve actually become is knowledgeable and powerful and fucking furious.
Sophie Heawood (via coca-koala)

(Source: featherfall)

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hotsenator:

Shout out to all of the oldest children…who were used as the tester kids and now watch their younger siblings get away with shit you would have been killed for.. Justice will never be restored


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hotcouplesmakingloves:

lovemaking
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It’s so strange that autumn is so beautiful; yet everything is dying.
Unknown  (via snow-and-sorrow)

(Source: impactings)

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