Apparently, I Broke Up With Myself

My shitty boyfriend was just the messenger

It was the look in his eyes when they finally met mine that scared me the most. The look made it real. Not the unthinkable things he was saying or the fact that his stuff was already packed and gone by the time I got home. His eyes, which had swum with warmth whenever they looked at me since the moment we met, had turned ice cold without so much as a shred of hope left swimming in them.

He stood there and I couldn’t help but think how strange his arms looked, hanging limply at his sides. It occurred to me how rare it was for me to see them and not feel them wrapped around me; touching, holding, forging a constant physical connection whenever possible to reinforce the unseen, underground wires forever connecting us to one another. But, in this moment, his arms looked alien. Like they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

We met while volunteering on a mutual friend’s film project during college. In the chaos that inevitably accompanies any movie shoot, someone’s dog was accidentally let out of the house where we were shooting and it took off down the street, heading straight for traffic. I instinctively gave chase and, moments later, I was joined and then overtaken by someone much faster. Together we corralled and caught the floofy fugitive and returned him to safety, breathlessly…