When the final bag is unloaded and packed away, we stand in the kitchen. Silent. Eyes on each other. Tension surrounding us.

“What’s wrong?”

“He was touching you,” he nearly growls, barely opening his mouth enough to let the words fall out. The air of what used to be his anger hangs in the place. “Have you fucked him?” He takes a second to register the shocked look on my face, before continuing. If it’s possible his words contain more venom than I ever thought any human could ever throw at another. “Probably started before I was hurt. I mean why not, you spend all day together. I was in a coma for two weeks, who the fuck knows what happened.”

“He’s a friend. And a co-worker,” I snap. “I’m not even going to entertain your questions with answers. You’re being an asshole. Just like you were the last time something like this happened.”

Throwing his hands up in the air, he yells in anger. “Of course this has happened before. And of course I don’t fucking remember it. So did you fuck him the last time, too?”

Everything I’ve been able to keep in check these last few weeks breaks through. “What if I did? What would you care? You don’t even remember who I am? So now I’m not supposed to have friends?”

As if I’d slapped him across the face, David stands there. The only movement is that of his chest rising and falling with his shaky breaths. His non-reaction spurs me on even further. “You know, not once in the two weeks since you’ve been here have you ever said thank you. I wanted you to live here so I could make sure you were okay, and maybe hopefully remind you of who I was. But it’s not working for me anymore. I can’t do this. I do nothing wrong at all. I have a conversation with a friend and you give me the silent treatment, like a child.”

“You think this has been easy on me?” His voice, loud and booming, knocks me back and shuts me up. “I came here because I wasn’t allowed to be on my own. You offered your home to me knowing what was wrong with me and now you’re going to hold that against me?” His fists clench at his side so tightly his knuckles turn white. “Do you know what it’s like to know you’re supposed to love someone, but you can’t remember who they fucking are?”

Tears sting my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. I’ve thought about how difficult things must be on him every single day, but I’ve never said anything for fear of upsetting him, for making him feel less than adequate.

Leaving me to my tears, he storms out of the kitchen and down to what’s become his room in an apartment I’d hoped would only ever have an our room.

Cursing myself for being some kind of hopeful asshole, I wish I had never opened my mouth to invite him here. I should have let him and his parents sort it out. He could have gone to his therapy sessions on his own, met up with Ian a few times, figured his new life out on his own. But instead, I let my love for him complicate things. My need to keep our past alive has gotten in the way of his future. And seeing him so broken and angry, so pissed off and furious because of my own selfishness, I can’t help but hate myself.

I won’t deny I still love him, but maybe I love who he used to be too much to make room for who he is now.

And the very harsh reality that he no longer has the same feelings for me as he used to is crashing all around me.

With my heart in my stomach, I walk to his room, feeling as if I’m walking into the center of a black hole. Lightly tapping on the door opens it, and I catch a glimpse of him sitting on the edge of his bed. With his elbows resting on his thighs, he’s cupping his head in hands. His shoulders sag, weighed down by the heaviness of everything threatening to consume him.

“Maybe you should move out,” I suggest, walking into the room.

He turns his head to me, tears shining in his dark brown eyes. “I’ll be out by the time you get home tomorrow.”

Nodding, I turn and walk out, before my heart crashes to the floor, breaking in half at my feet.

“You look like shit,” Tim notices as I walk into the classroom the next morning.

“Yeah, I know,” I agree, not even bothering to check my appearance. As I was getting dressed, my eyes were too puffy to even see what clothes I was picking out. For all I know, I could have left the house wearing a brown shoe and a black one. Luckily that didn’t happen. My pants, however, are the furthest thing from freshly pressed. And I’m pretty sure I unrolled my shirt from a ball in the bottom of the closet before pulling it over my head.

Attire was not my main priority this morning.

Breathing was.

And it turns out that’s a rather difficult task when your heart stops functioning.

He’s going to be gone when I get home. And I don’t know when I’ll see him again. Or even if I will ever again.

“Wanna talk about it?” Tim asks, walking over to my desk where I’m currently sorting through some papers I was supposed to have graded already.

“No,” I snap, immediately regretful of my tone. “Sorry. It’s just . . .” Cue the damn tears. They haven’t stopped since I curled up in a ball last night. I have a feeling they’re not going to stop any time soon. Centering myself with a few deep breaths, I choke out, “David and I broke up. At least, well, you can’t really break up with someone you’re not even with. But he’s moving out. We had a fight and I said it would be best for him to leave. And he agreed.”

“Oh, Grace,” Tim soothes, pity filling his eyes. “I’m sorry.” Squatting in front of me as I hold my head in my hands, he runs his hand over my upper arm. “But maybe it’s better this way.”

His suggestion makes my stomach roil. Not because he’s happy for my pain, or because he’s looking for some kind of in into my life. Because neither of those things are true.

No, the reason his words sting more than a scalding burn is because he just might be right.

Meandering through the rest of my day in a fog of numbness, I manage to survive until three o’clock. The moment I’d been dreading since I woke up this morning is rearing its ugly head.

Sure, I could call Jade and head into the city for the weekend. I’m sure a few bottles of wine would help me forget.

But then I’d wake up again. And the pillows on my bed would still smell like David. He would still be in my house, not in body but in spirit.

And no matter where he is physically, he will always be a part of me.

So, deciding to face my heartache head-on, I drive home, knowing full well no one will be waiting there for me when I get there.

But what is waiting for me shocks me to my core.

Grace,

I’ve started this letter a hundred times, but I still can’t find the right words. I wish I could go back in time and stop everything that happened from happening. I wish I could remember who we were and all the reasons I loved you. But I can’t do those things.

Seems like the only thing I can do is screw things up. You’re right. In the time I was here, I never once said thank you. But I didn’t say it not because I didn’t feel it. Because I did. I felt thankful and so much more. I may not remember everything about our past, but I remember every moment of living with you. Of waking up to the sound of you getting ready for work, feeling like a little puppy waiting for you to return. Helping you cook what used to be my favorite meals will always be cherished memories for me.

I never told you this, but there were nights I’d lie in bed damn near willing my memory to return, to make the time we spent together come back to life.