Poems and Stories

For Janinna 💕

One of my soul sisters sent this prompt to me. And I just wanted to see if I still got it with writing on the fly. I hope this delivered.

***

She is finally silent, though her heavy breaths could still be heard within the stillness of the four walls of their living room. Her watery eyes are cold, determined, angry. She continues to look at him.

Him.

The man she once promised to love forever. The man she once said she’ll grow old together with. The man who held her heart for the longest time.

The man who she fell in-love once.

The same man that she isn’t in-love with anymore.

“I’m done,” she quietly says, sitting down on the couch she remembers as the very first furniture they bought together all those years ago. She chuckles bitterly at this realization. “I am just so done.”

“As am I,” he mutters as well, his eyes distant, uncaring, unfeeling. Yet defeated.

“I knew it would come to this,” she continues.

“You knew,” he scoffs. “Did you also know that you would break me in the process? Did you also know that your decision would completely crush this family?”

“What family?” she sighs. “We haven’t been a family for a while. You haven’t been home most days. The kids know we aren’t ok and they actually accept that. Accepted it already. Because they don’t see you as much as they should. And you’re telling me I crushed this family?!” Her voice starts to pick up.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. They both know there is some truth to what she just said. He is simply grasping at straws to try and salvage whatever it is that they still have. What he thinks they still have.

But instead, he tries to put the blame on her. Because he cannot accept that she is the one who made this decision. That she is the one who is making sense right now.

That she finally had enough.

“You and I, it’s done. We’re done,” she tells him, quietly once more. “I don’t love you. You don’t love me. Stop trying to still make it work just because you don’t like it that I was the first to make this decision. Stop trying to play the blame game. Just stop.”

And he does. Because she’s right. She has always been right. He is just too much of an asshole to concede to that. Because he has his pride. His male, egoistic pride.

But look where that got him, them, now?

He sits on the other end of the couch, his head bowed, resigned.

“I’m sorry,” his hushed voice reaching her.

But it’s too late now, isn’t it? It’s just too late.

And she tries to tell him so.

“I know. I am too. But—” she doesn’t finish. She doesn’t really need to.

Because they both already know.

“Yeah…”

It’s too late.

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