Two Sides of a Heartbreak

It was so late that night. I was tired. I wanted to sleep, but she'd called me and asked if I wanted to go for a drive. So I got out of bed and I picked her up from her house. She was in her pajamas, climbing out her bedroom window-- it was so conveniently placed on the first floor facing the street.

"Took you long enough," she'd said as soon as she opened the passenger door.

I was at her house in eleven minutes since receiving her text.

I shook my head in amusement as she settled in the passenger seat. I'd always secretly liked her poor attitude.

We drove in silence for the first few minutes. She twiddled with her thumbs and worried at the fraying edge of her sleeve. At the time I was confused why she wasn't talking to me. Now I realized it was because she was too occupied thinking of which way she was going to break my heart.

Of course she was going to break up with me.

She was beautiful, and bold, and funny, and smart. God, she was so brilliant. I think that's what I loved most about her. Lust is an easy thing to get over, but being in love with someone's brain is a crazy feeling. It just so happened, much to my despair, that the vessel that held all that cleverness was incredibly attractive. Alluring. Lovely.

And I was everything she was not. Rude, and mousy, and stupid-- idiotic, surely, for how could I mess this up so bad?

I'd pulled over on the side of the dark rode. It was late that night, as I'd said, and no cars were out.

She'd looked at me with confusion in those big brown eyes of hers that were always my weakness.

"I think we should break up."

There it was. It was said. But she was not the one who said it. I was.

"What?" She said, acting as if this wasn't her idea all along.

"I think we should break up."

She didn't say anything for a long while. Or maybe it was short, but adding to the long list of faults, I was also impatient. So I spoke again, probably too soon.

"I just don't think we're right for each other." This was true. She was much better than I. "Don't you agree?" This was a plea. I was begging her to contradict me. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me we are exactly right for each other.

"I don't understand," she said softly.

She was obviously shocked that I had proposed the breakup first. I couldn't blame her, not even now. Who in their right mind would ever want to end things with her?

I just could not handle her inflicting me with that type of pain. It would kill me to resent her. So I did it for her. I could hate myself more easily than I could hate her. I would start the fire, and I would stand in it, and I would watch myself burn. And she would be gone.

I don't remember much of what happened after that, only that I drove her home and returned to my own that night with metaphorical burns all over my body. I think she was crying, but I'm sure I imagined it, just hoping that she felt any sort of remorse over losing me.

Just a fraction of what I felt for the loss of her.

Although it was late at night, I was wide awake. I'd fallen asleep earlier in the afternoon.

I wanted to see him.

So I'd texted him, hoping he was still awake. He'd responded within a few minutes and was parked in front of my house in a few more. I didn't even have time to change out of my pajamas.

I'd climbed out the window of my bedroom and walked up to his car, running through greetings in my head.

Hey baby.

Hi love.

Thanks for coming.

"Took you long enough," I'd ended up saying.

I was never the best with showing my affection, even now. So I teased him. . . a lot. The love language so few spoke.

He'd shaken his head, already annoyed with me.

I couldn't blame him. I'd dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night to come see me and the first thing I do is berate him? Yeah, I'd have shaken my head too.

I tried to stay quiet, afraid I might open my mouth to say something nice, and end up saying something rude.

He was always so nice to me, and he put up with me so well. Sometimes I feared he would grow tired of me. And my fears were justified as he spoke his first words of that night.

"I think we should break up."

I'd been playing with the fringe on my sweater, but my fingers froze as I heard his proposal.

Maybe I'd heard wrong, I'd thought. Please tell me I heard wrong.

"What?" I asked him.

We were pulled over on the side of the road. There were no cars around this late at night, and the street lights were too dim to be of much use. In retrospect, maybe it was better this way. If what I thought was happening was really happening (and it was), then it was a mercy to not see his face on that dark night.

He'd repeated himself, word for word, exactly what I was trying to convince myself I'd misheard.

Instantly, my mind went to what I could say to change his mind. I think I'd gotten lost in my frantic thoughts a lot longer than I'd realized, because he spoke again.

"I just don't think we are right for each other, don't you agree?"

He'd thought this was common knowledge. Maybe he'd been thinking this for a while. I felt infinitely foolish. Why had I not seen his dwindling interest earlier?

He was finally tired of me. My teasing, my inability to show affection, my selfishness. I so badly wanted him to be in the wrong. So badly I wished for him to say he'd found someone else or another terrible thing that would cause me pain. It would be easier for me to hate him. Because if it was my fault, then I would hate myself as I would hate him, but him I could forgive, but I could never forgive myself.

"I don't understand," I'd whispered. If I spoke any louder I was afraid I would've screamed.

With heartbreak, sadness is a given. What I didn't expect was the frustration. The helplessness. I'd wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, why?

He might've given me an answer that night, but if he did I don't remember it. I do remember turning my face to the car window, grateful for the darkness, and crying as he drove me home for the very last time.