have you ever seen pictures of sunlit wooden floors, empty rooms, and wondered what it would be like to live there? i feel almost guilty, wanting all space to myself. just me and the light through the windows. but living alone is lonely, too. i wouldn’t come home to cinnamon and apple and pie crusts, or the tv blaring or laughter. not unless i chose to have someone come with me. and for years it’s been a friend to grow with, but for years i have wanted someone to read with. one to sit in the corner of the couch in the dark, to shove pillows aside or together. warmth, touch. and the one i loved would be at the kitchen counter spilling coffee. i thought maybe, with us, we could have.
but passive rejection can be the worst kind of rejection. i prefer a direct answer, but it seems every could-have in my life has ended slowly, like scraping, the connection loosening on one end. which end, why can’t he tell me, why do i have to be the only honest one, the one to say i’ve missed you? my therapist (strange two words to type) says i valued our connection, even though i still felt he did not care as much. because i knew you a little before i knew you. at the beginning, it was all a burst of dim light. lights off. then that soft rain as we rested our chins on your windowsill. “what made you think he was the right first one?” she asked. i said, “i thought he would treat me right. and he seemed to like me.”