I’ve never stopped to consider the nature of silence. An affirmation of the unknown; confirmation of the places we’ll never go, topics we’ll never explore, memories locked behind closed doors. What does it mean to you, knowing what you now do? I can imagine what it was like to come home to half forgotten rooms with barren shelves, reminiscent of a time when they were full. Of laughter, of love, of the promise of tomorrow.

There’s a heaviness that clings to every step, threatening to pull me into the earth. Would it be easier if I let it? I should’ve written, should’ve called, could have reached out in any sense of the phrase. Instead, I thought it best to disappear. Easier, maybe. Tomorrow will still come, just a bit different than expected. You’ll still rise in the morning for coffee, smear cream cheese over your bagel. You might call, you might worry. It’ll take time for the reality to settle in, a subtle delay in your comprehension. How long will it take for you to understand? To formulate the notion that our little routine is slightly off kilter?

I’ve been absent for a while, rising before you, leaving without breakfast, sitting in the drive before coming in at night. You notice. You smell the alcohol on my breath, see the tightness in my eyes. Still, you didn’t question, and I’m glad. I wouldn’t have known what to say. Couples therapy would’ve been a waste. Every relationship takes work, commitment, choice. I can’t give you any of that. I don’t know who I’ll be a couple days from now, let alone what I’ll like. Wants are easy but fleeting, maintenance is difficult, routine is tedious.

Where does the excitement go? In the beginning it’s all about discovery, the thrill of something new. As familiarity sets in, it becomes easier to distinguish your responses from that of a stranger. Predictable. Boring. Expendable. But with you it took longer, with you I didn’t grow tired until year four.

Four years, and now I’m back to square one. Seated on a train, waiting. Waiting. But for what? What exactly am I doing? You’re nice enough, never cheated, never lost. You don’t question the things I do, and we don’t view the world from the same lense. You don’t look twice at troubled youth or hesitate when someone asks to be friends. What exactly am I looking for that I couldn’t find with you?

My gaze catches on an older couple across the train, huddled together in shared secrecy. How do they do it? Did they just meet? Should I ask them? Would their response even resonate?

Maybe the issue is that I enjoy not knowing. I don’t have patience for the mundane of a nine to five, scheduled bed times, predictable insights. Maybe I just need something new, something exciting. Maybe what I want isn’t the company of another but the challenge of experience. Does that make sense? Do I sound like a hypocrite?

Are you going to miss me? Would it be truely or routinely? Admittedly, if the routine was the underlying issue, then this would’ve come up before. Instead, silence. Abandonment before our bed ran cold. An observation without question, acknowledgement without understanding. Would I want you to know? Would I be honest, even if you asked? Would I admit it’s me, fundamentally, or would I nitpick, searching for an idiosyncrasy you can’t control? Admittedly, the latter is more in-character for us. How boring.

My phone chimes. It’s 09:02. It’s you.