Sitting with Broken Glass

Sandra pressed her forehead against the cracked glass, watching as raindrops raced each other down the window. The blurred past, this manifestation of her reflection in the cracks, but she barely registered it. Ten years of her life, gone. Just like that. As the train rocked gently beneath her, Sandra's mind drifted to those pivotal moments, the ones that had shaped their decade together. Some were bright flashes of joy, others quiet revelations, and some were fractures that could never quite be repaired. Looking in these splinters were like chapters unraveling, memories in her reflection.

She remembered their first meeting – that small café on the corner of Heath and Hyde Park, where she'd spilled coffee near his laptop. Jaime had laughed instead of getting angry, and something in his eyes had made her brave enough to sit down. They'd talked until closing time.

Those early days had been electric. Every text made her heart leap. Every date felt like unwrapping a gift. Jaime was different from anyone she'd ever known – thoughtful and passionate about everything from politics to pasta-making. He'd take her hand across restaurant tables and tell her stories that made her laugh until her sides hurt. On their third date, they'd got caught in a thunderstorm and ended up drenched, taking shelter in a bookstore where they'd read poetry to each other until the rain stopped. She'd never felt so seen. But now, those poems spoke to her in a different light.

I wonder sometimes

if I can find

somewhere you don't exist

how I have lived

are in these moments

only I will remember

always trying

to make it to dawn

without disappearing into empty dreams

always trying

to fly far away

without crippled wings

always trying

to soothe this thirsty soul

without losing myself

and I wonder sometimes

if time has stopped for you too

Their courtship had been a whirlwind. Six months of dating before moving in together – her friends thought it was too fast, but it had felt inevitable. The way Jaime made space for her things, carefully arranging her books alongside his, had touched her deeply.

The first time he'd said "I love you" was after she'd nursed him through a terrible cold. His voice was hoarse, his face pale, but his eyes were clear and certain. It wasn't how she'd imagined it would happen. Jaime had been sick for days with a fever that wouldn't break. Sandra had taken time off work, running cool cloths over his forehead, forcing him to drink broth when he protested he wasn't hungry. On the third night, his fever finally broke. He woke at 3 AM, finding her asleep in the armchair she'd dragged next to the bed.

"Sandra," he'd whispered, his voice raw. She'd startled awake. "Are you okay? Do you need something?"

"I love you," he'd said simply. No preamble, no hesitation. Just the truth, spoken in the blue darkness.

She remembered how the words had hung in the air between them, how her heart had stuttered. She'd never said it first in any relationship, always too afraid of the vulnerability. But with Jaime, the words came easily.

"I love you too," she'd replied, and the smile that broke across his exhausted face was like sunrise.

The memories came in waves. Their first apartment, tiny but theirs. The way he brought her tea every morning. How they'd painted the living room together, ending up with more paint on themselves than the walls. The garden they'd planted together. Their shared dream of opening a bookstore café someday.

They'd made a home together, piece by piece. Sunday mornings were sacred – Jaime making pancakes while Sandra read the newspaper aloud. They had rituals – anniversary picnics in the park, Christmas Eve movie marathons, surprise gifts hidden throughout the house on birthdays. They'd built a language of inside jokes and knowing glances that no one else understood.

On their one-year anniversary, they'd splurged on a weekend at a coastal hotel with a balcony overlooking the ocean. They'd brought a bottle of champagne up to watch the sunset.

"I want this to be us at eighty," Jaime had said, his arm around her shoulders. "Still finding beautiful things to look at together."

"Is that a proposal?" she'd teased, but her heart was hammering.

He'd turned to face her, suddenly serious. "Not yet. But someday. I promise you that, Sandra. Someday."

They'd never actually married. That "someday" became one of many promises that slipped through their fingers over the years.

In their third year, Jaime had been offered a promotion at the publishing house. a significant step up that would mean longer hours and frequent travel. He'd been elated when he told her, already envisioning the projects he could champion.

Sandra had smiled and congratulated him, but later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, she'd voiced her concern.

"I'm happy for you, but I'm worried about what it means for us."

"It's just a job," he'd said lightly.

"It's not just a job to you, though. It's who you are."

Their eyes had met in the bathroom mirror as he brushed his teeth. She'd seen the momentary flash of irritation before he schooled his features.

"I can be both—successful at work and present with you."

She hadn't argued. But over the following years, as missed dinners piled up and weekend trips were canceled for deadline emergencies, that moment in the bathroom had come to feel prophetic. But there had been shadows too, even in those good years. Jaime's ambition sometimes made him distant, working late nights at the publishing house.

Sandra's desire for children had been met with "someday" for years, until she stopped bringing it up. They'd argue about money, about time, about the future that seemed increasingly nebulous. They hadn't been trying for a baby. It had been a surprise - a terrifying, wonderful surprise that had left them both speechless when the test showed positive. For the next few weeks, they'd lived in a bubble of cautious excitement. Jaime had downloaded pregnancy apps. Sandra had started sketching nursery layouts.

When she woke to cramping and blood at eleven weeks, Jaime had held her hand in the emergency room with such tenderness she could hardly bear it. The doctor had been kind but clinical: these things happen, nothing you could have done, try again when you're ready.

At home, Jaime had made tea and held her while she cried. But in the days that followed, she noticed he never mentioned the baby. It was as if he'd packed away that brief future into a box he couldn't open. When she tried to talk about her grief, he would change the subject or find reasons to leave the room.

"I just need time," he'd said when she finally confronted him. "I can't talk about it yet."

But "yet" never came. The silence around that loss had created the first true distance between them—a gap that would widen over the years, despite their best efforts.

In their fifth year, they'd stumbled upon a "For Sale" sign in the window of a charming corner store just blocks from their apartment. Through the dusty windows, they could see built-in bookshelves and an old wooden counter.

"This is it," Sandra had breathed. "This could be our bookstore café."

It had been their shared dream since they'd met—a place where people could find both literary treasures and perfect cappuccinos. They'd spent hours on the sidewalk, peering in those windows and planning: poetry readings in that corner, a children's nook there, maybe even small publishing endeavors of their own someday.

They'd called the number on the sign and arranged a viewing. The price was high but not impossible. They'd need loans, they'd need to work insane hours, but together, they could make it happen. That night, they'd stayed up until dawn making lists and sketching floor plans. It had been the most alive Sandra had felt in years—the two of them creating something together again.

But in the cold light of morning, Jaime had hesitated.

"It's a big risk," he'd said over coffee. "Maybe we should wait until we've saved more."

"When would that be? In five years? Ten? Sometimes you have to leap," she'd argued.

"And sometimes you crash," he'd replied.

They'd never called the realtor back. The building sold within a month, becoming a high-end jewelry store. Every time they walked past it, Sandra felt a pang of what might have been. Not just the store, but the version of them that would have run it together.

The counseling in year eight seemed to help, until it didn't. Their therapist, Dr. Tomo, had taught them communication techniques that worked for a while. They'd reconnected, rediscovered each other. The night after their eighth anniversary, they'd stayed up until dawn talking about their dreams again. It had felt like a new beginning.

Sandra had spent weeks planning Jaime's 35th birthday. She'd arranged a surprise gathering of his closest friends at his favorite restaurant, followed by tickets to see an author he admired. But the night before, Jaime had called to say he couldn't make their planned dinner.

"The Miami Book Fair presentations need to be redone. I'll be at the office late."

"How late?" she'd asked, thinking of the reservations, the friends who had rearranged their schedules.

"I don't know, Sandra. Late. I'm sorry."

She'd canceled everything, swallowing her disappointment and the cost of non-refundable deposits. When he'd come home after midnight, she'd been waiting with a cupcake and a single candle.

"You remembered," he'd said, looking genuinely touched.

"Of course I remembered." She hadn't told him about the canceled plans, about the gifts she'd returned. What would be the point?

They'd eaten the cupcake together at the kitchen counter, making small talk about his day. It wasn't until he went to brush his teeth that she'd allowed herself to cry, silently, sitting alone in the dark kitchen.

There had been a Sunday, about six months before the end, that stood out in Sandra's memory as their last truly happy day together. A rare alignment of free time and good weather had prompted them to take an impromptu drive to the coast.

They'd walked barefoot on the beach, played like children in the waves, and eaten fish and chips on a sea wall. Jaime had taken her picture as the wind whipped her hair across her face, and she'd been self-conscious until he showed her the result: her head thrown back in laughter, looking carefree in a way she hadn't in years.

"You're still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he'd said, and for once, there was no tension beneath the words, no unspoken grievances. They'd driven home with the windows down, singing along badly to '80s songs on the radio.

In the morning, reality had rushed back in—deadlines, chores, schedules that rarely overlapped. But for that one perfect day, they'd been the people they'd fallen in love with long ago. Sometimes, in her darkest moments since the separation, Sandra wondered if that day had been a gift or a cruel reminder of what they'd lost.

are you better from far away

I get lost thinking of you

wandering in time

wondering if it's real

wishing for the truth

but your lights find me

and lead me back to your heart

It was on her 36th birthday, Jaime had wrapped a small box with careful precision. Inside was a silver necklace with a pendant shaped like a book—an obvious reference to their shared love of literature, the dream they'd once had.

As she'd lifted it from the box, she'd looked up to find him watching her without expression, as if he were observing a stranger unwrapping a package. There was no warmth in his eyes, no pleasure in her reaction. He was simply fulfilling an obligation.

"It's beautiful," she'd said, because it was.

"I thought you'd like it," he'd replied mechanically.

It was then that Sandra knew with absolute certainty that they were finished. Not because the gift was wrong, it was thoughtful in theory—but because there was nothing left behind it. No love, no desire to please, not even the satisfaction of knowing someone well. Just emptiness, wrapped in pretty paper.

She never wore the necklace. It remained in its box, tucked into her jewelry case, a small tombstone marking the death of what they'd once been to each other.

But some wounds had scarred over rather than healed. The growing silence between them in the final year was more painful than any shouting match. There was no dramatic betrayal, no single moment of collapse. Their love had eroded slowly, like a shoreline giving way to the sea. Sandra had started to feel lonely even when Jaime was in the same room. His touch no longer felt like coming home.

The conversation had been quiet, almost peaceful. "We're not happy anymore, are we?" Jaime had asked one Tuesday evening. And for the first time in months, they'd been completely honest with each other. There were tears, but no accusations. Just the sad acknowledgment of a truth they'd both been avoiding.

Their last night together had been eerily peaceful. They'd divided their belongings with the calm efficiency of business partners dissolving a venture. Books, kitchenware, furniture, all categorized and allocated without argument.

They'd ordered takeout from the Thai place they both loved and eaten it on the floor of their half-empty living room, surrounded by boxes. "This is just like our first night in our first apartment?" Sandra said. Jaime had smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes.

"We were so happy with so little."

"We were," he would agreed quietly.

They'd reminisced late into the night, excavating memories they hadn't visited in years. There were moments when Sandra had felt a flicker of doubt—if they could talk like this again, laugh like this again, couldn't they find their way back?

But in the morning, as Jaime helped carry her boxes to the waiting taxi, she'd known they'd made the right decision. What they'd shared the night before wasn't a revival but a wake—a gentle, loving farewell to what had once been beautiful but now was gone.

"Take care of yourself," he'd said at the door, and she'd seen the tears he was fighting back.

"You too," she'd whispered, allowing herself one last touch—her hand against his cheek—before walking away.

I need goodbye to mean forever this time

it’s getting hard to carry

this portrait of a dying heart

of always standing in your rain

of regrets that were collected along the way

on this path of love and madness

where all the streetlights look the same

Sandra shifted in her seat, looking above the cracked window and saw the view complete. The train swayed gently beneath her, carrying her away from what had once been home. Her phone buzzed. A message from her sister: "How are you holding up?" Sandra didn't know how to answer. Heartbroken? Relieved? Both? The past week had been a blur of dividing possessions, signing papers, explaining to friends. The gentleness with which they'd handled the separation almost hurt more than anger would have.

As the train began slowing for the next station, Sandra fingered the house key in one pocket and ticket in her other pocket. This wasn't her planned destination, but she suddenly couldn't bear the thought of following a predetermined path. She'd done that for too long.

The windows gave her perspective. Beyond them lay unknown streets, unfamiliar faces, and the terrifying possibility of starting over. The doors opened with a hydraulic sigh. Sandra hesitated, then grabbed her bag and stepped off the train. Sometimes the most defining moments weren't the ones you remembered, but the ones you hadn't yet lived, somewhere unexpected. Start something new.

Ten years had taught her many things – how to love, how to fight, how to let go. Perhaps endings were just different kinds of beginnings in disguise. She remembered one of her favorite poems that the author had read aloud during a stop on her book tour and said slowly under her breath, ‘kiss me with lips goodbye’.

My departure is calling me

his outstretched hands cradle my fears

accepting tomorrows that will never be

and asks for my final prayers

kiss me with lips goodbye

and for those I leave behind

can I stand still in your memory?

can I be the north star in your sky?

can I be a beacon in your lost ocean?

can I still be your lullaby?

I promise to rest in time

If this flawless ending is kind

kiss me with lips goodbye

and I made departure mine

As she stepped onto the unfamiliar platform, Sandra took a deep breath. The rain had stopped, and weak sunlight broke through the clouds. Ahead of her lay a station she'd never seen before, a town she'd never visited. Behind her, a decade of joy and pain, laughter and tears, growth and loss.

She started walking away, slowly turning around to see the train closing its doors. “And I made departure mine.”