HE LEFT THE LIGHTS ON AND THE FRONT DOOR WIDE OPEN WHEN HE DROVE AWAY
I stood there watching his tail lights shrink down the street, the cold night air hitting my face. My fingers felt frozen on the doorknob, still warm from where he’d just touched it leaving. I couldn’t even scream, just stood there breathing in the smell of wet pavement and something metallic from his old car.
He’d just said it so quietly, leaning against the kitchen counter where we’d shared coffee this morning. “I can’t do this anymore,” he whispered, and the words felt like shards of ice under my skin. My blood ran hot in my ears.
I remember the hum of the refrigerator being the loudest thing in the room. I wanted to grab the first thing I saw, throw it, make him react, but my limbs felt heavy, useless. He just watched me, his eyes flat and empty.
Then I saw the small leather journal on the counter beside him, the one he always kept hidden in his backpack. It was open to a page with my name written at the top.
He hadn’t packed a bag, but the keys to the cabin were gone from the hook.A wave of nausea crashed over me. The cabin. That was supposed to be our sanctuary, our escape. Now it was just another place tainted by his absence. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird desperate to escape its cage.
I finally found my voice, a strangled croak. “Why?” I managed to whisper, the sound swallowed by the silence of the house.
He didn’t answer. He just straightened up, gave me a final, almost apologetic look, and walked out the door. And now here I was, the afterimage of his departure burned into my retinas, the echo of his words ringing in my ears.
I stumbled inside, my hand still shaking as I reached for the light switch. The sudden brightness felt harsh, intrusive. I closed the door, the click echoing loudly in the empty house. The air was thick with the scent of him – his cologne, his coffee, the faint musk of his skin. It was a cruel reminder of what I had lost.
I walked to the kitchen counter, drawn to the journal like a moth to a flame. My name was indeed written at the top of the page, followed by a series of crossed-out sentences, fragments of thoughts I couldn’t decipher. But at the bottom, in his familiar handwriting, was a single, uncrossed line: “I’m so sorry. I just need to find myself again, and I can’t do it here.”
Tears streamed down my face, blurring the words. Find himself? What about finding us? I crumpled the page in my fist, the paper tearing under the force of my grief. I wanted to hate him, to curse him, but all I felt was a hollow ache, a gaping void where my future had been.
Suddenly, a new thought pierced through the fog of my sorrow. The cabin. He was going to the cabin. Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t the end. Maybe this was just a desperate plea for space, for time. Maybe if I went there, I could still reach him, still salvage something from the wreckage of our relationship.
I ran upstairs, grabbing a bag and throwing in a few essentials. As I reached the front door, I hesitated. Should I leave a note? No. He knew where to find me, if he wanted to. I slammed the door shut, the sound reverberating through the empty house. This time, I made sure to turn off the lights.
The drive to the cabin was a blur. My hands gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white. The road unwound before me, a dark ribbon leading to an uncertain destination.
Finally, I saw it – the familiar silhouette of the cabin against the inky sky. His car was parked in the driveway. I took a deep breath and got out, my heart pounding in my chest.
The cabin door was unlocked. I pushed it open and stepped inside. He was sitting by the fireplace, staring into the flames. He looked up as I entered, his eyes wide with surprise.
“I read your journal,” I said, my voice trembling. “I came to find you.”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at me, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t expect you to come.”
“I had to,” I replied. “I love you.”
He stood up and walked towards me, his hand reaching out to cup my face. “I love you too,” he whispered. “I just… I needed to figure things out. I needed to remember who I was outside of us.”
We stood there for a long time, just holding each other, the silence broken only by the crackling fire. We didn’t talk about the future, or about what had happened. We just held onto each other, finding solace in the warmth of our embrace.
That night, we slept in each other’s arms, the fire burning low in the hearth. The next morning, we woke up to the sound of birds singing outside the window. We made coffee, and sat on the porch, watching the sunrise paint the sky with vibrant colors.
We didn’t know what the future held, but we knew that we were willing to fight for it, to work for it, to find our way back to each other. The road ahead would be long and difficult, but we were ready to face it together. Because sometimes, love is not about never leaving the lights on, it’s about finding your way back in the dark, together.