How to Lose Her

You won’t know it’s a bad day. You’ve already let yourself get used to thinking that she’s going to be alright, you’ve seen her smile more often, get out of bed before noon. You won’t know, and the shock of it will hit you so hard, you almost forget what to do. It’s the loss of the smile that will hit you hardest. It will stop sitting comfortably on her face, straining at the corners and not meeting her eyes.

It’s been so long since you’ve had to do anything to keep her out of her own head. The loving was easy and the touches weren’t as desperate, no tugging to hide inside each other. You stayed because it seemed like you were coming together again, without the sickness.

You’ll sit beside her on the couch and bring your laptop with you because you have work to do. Somewhere between mussing up your hair to keep the stress out of your hands and sighing through the quiet in the room, notice that she hasn’t spoken since sitting down. Think that it might be because she’s watching the television. Remember that she doesn’t leave the room for the television, she leaves to be close to you while you work.

“You okay?” you’ll ask, reaching a hand out to catch hers. Your fingers will run over the back of it, and she will tremble at the contact. You’ll think she’s cold and squeeze her hand to drive away the chill. A small part of you hopes that it is just the cold, but the bigger part will know where this is going. It always starts with the silence, and it always ends with it too. You can’t do much to break it if she doesn’t want you to.

She’ll nod, move closer to you, rest her head against your shoulder. Something in your chest will tighten, the muscles constricting and the blood running too slow. Slow like tar in your veins, slow like the way you can almost feel her sinking into herself.

Wonder how long it’ll take to pull her out this time. Tell yourself you still want to try. You have to remind yourself of it all the time; you’re scared that if you don’t, you will leave. So, you keep your eyes on the computer screen. Hold her hand, so you have a reason to stay rooted to the couch beside her.

“Just tired,” she’ll say. Know that it’s not the kind of tired that comes with sleepless nights, but don’t say anything about it.

She’ll move even closer to you, bring her legs up onto the couch and tuck her feet beneath her. Her hands will clutch at the long sleeves of your sweater, pulling you against her. Don’t tense up because she’ll think it means you don’t want her. You always want her, but wish you could have her without the sickness. You’ve forgotten how to separate the two. How do you break something that has become the only force holding her together?

Try to remember, and prepare for what comes next.

Stop typing as you relax against her. Leave one arm in her grasp and bring the other up to rub at her shoulder, your fingers skimming across her bare skin because you know she needs to feel it. Let it ground her, but take the most of it for yourself. You need something to keep you in the room with her, so your mind won’t wander. Entertain thoughts of how she used to be, if she can ever get back to that. It will be the first of many selfish thoughts. You’ll hate yourself for it, and all the ones that follow, but you won’t stop thinking them.

She’ll close her eyes so she won’t have to look at you. So you won’t have to look at her. You hide from each other while still holding on.

By now, you’ll know. Don’t think too hard about it, just move like you always do, talk to her like you always do. It hasn’t made any progress yet, but there isn’t anything that can. You’ll know that too, get angry about how you haven’t done anything to stop it.

“Hey,” you’ll say. Keep your voice soft, a whisper. You have to be soft with her because she is softest in these moments, all peach skin and bruised insides. Your hands aren’t built to handle her anymore. You don’t think they ever were.

Turn your face into her because you want to hide from the memory of the things you no longer have. Maybe she’ll feel the flutter of your eyelashes, light against her forehead, and remember them too. Know that it won’t do her any good, but hope that it does something for you.

She won’t open her eyes. She’ll turn her face into your shoulder, shake her head. Remember how this used to be the part where she cried. The phantom soak of her tears will stain your shirt as you reach up to touch her hair. You’ll keep your hand still, wanting the tears back for one awful, selfish second, because at least then you knew what she was feeling.

Shift. Draw her closer. The air sighing from your nose will ruffle the hair on her head. Plant a kiss there, and keep it soft. Remember to be soft. You won’t know how much softer you can get.

You’ll feel like some part of you is sinking with her.

“Yeah, alright,” you’ll say, still quiet. Settle down against her.

You’ll breathe with her for a while, match the pace to keep you together. It’ll feel like the realest thing you have, and you won’t even be able to touch it. Don’t think about the parts you can touch, or how her hands have started to feel too heavy on you.

You won’t ask “How can I help? What do you need me to do?” You won’t have to because you know that she’ll be just as lost for an answer as you. You won’t push, but you’ll think about the one time you did, and how she’d suddenly gotten so angry she had to leave the room. You’ll think about how you’d been angry too. Miss the anger, and the yelling, and the tears. Hate that part of yourself too.

You’ll sit inside that feeling for several moments, wondering how long it will take for it to consume you. When she raises a hand to touch your cheek, hesitate but lean into it anyway. Her palms have slight calluses on them, familiar as they brush against your face. You will be struck by the thought that even that cannot pull you out. Maybe if she looked at you it would make a difference.