I could say it was a Friday. I could say, a few years ago. I could add vagueness to my story to remove myself from the sharpness of its pain. But the truth is, I know the date, the time, the weather, the exact space I was parked in. All of it. I know the song that came on the radio when I slid back into the driver’s seat and put the key in the ignition. I know what we were both wearing, and what we’d said.
At the time, I couldn’t have explained how it felt, other than lonely. It wasn’t heartbreak in the way most people understand it. It was disorientation, as if I’d left the essence of myself somewhere in that little house and didn’t know how to leave without it.
That was the last time I saw her, and and the last I ever will. I had tried to stop going back. I failed 11 times. Eleven times I resolved to block and delete, to never reach out again, to ignore her when she did. And each time I slid back into the same agonisingly comfortable position. Not enough, almost chosen, waiting. I sat in my car on her street afterwards, and that was the beginning of the twelfth attempt.
We call it chemistry. Most of the time it’s recognition. The person who feels like home is fine, as long as home was perfect in the first place. It rarely was. What worked wasn’t superhuman willpower. I didn’t suddenly find any. But I knew I had to break contact with her, no contact whatsoever.
