We are driving home from the hospital.

The stitches in my arm no longer sting.

He says nothing to me.

He doesn’t know what to say.

My eyes plead for him to speak.

He doesn’t notice,

And keeps his eyes firmly planted on the road.

He can’t look at me.

He’s too scared.

 

Another mile passes before I open my mouth.

“Say something.”

He diverts his glance for a second, before replying,

“I thought I was going to lose you.

I was so scared.”

I understand his fear, so I apologize.

It’s a force of habit by now.

 

“You’re sorry?” he scoffs,

“You think being sorry will magically fix this?

I could’ve lost you.

Hell, I probably already have.”

Tears start to well.

I know what’s coming,

But I’m not ready for it.

“We can work on this, fix this.”

He shakes his head,

Stops the car.

“Can we?”

 

I look out the window.

Our apartment complex.

He takes my hand, and something cold drops into it.

It’s his key.

“Now I’m the one who has to be sorry,”

He chokes.

I’m crying, of course.

But my face is dry.

I have no tears left, after all that’s happened.

 

I open the door and get out.

Reality strikes.

Life is no movie,

Not everything has a happy ending.

I lost him

The second I put that blade to my skin.