5 Years or 3 Minutes

The rain had begun again, soft as breath – just a hush against the windows, the kind of weather that made you forget what season it was – forcing you to look outside to the trees to see if there were leaves, or buds, or naked branches.

She stood in her kitchen, one hand still resting on the edge of the counter, as if she hadn’t moved since he left. He had been gone exactly three minutes. Maybe four. The sound of the door clicking shut still hung in the air like the tail-end of a song she didn’t like anymore, played too much and too often.

The tea she made was cooling on the stove. The grocery bag she brought home was half-unpacked. He’d eaten half the strawberries straight from the carton and left the rest bruised, lids off. Warmth began creeping into the milk.

Every night was the same now.

He came by during the day while she was at work. Let himself in. Watched TV too loud. Took long naps. Left mugs half-full of coffee on the bookshelf. Then he’d still be there when she got home, barefoot and relaxed, talking like they’d never been apart.

Tonight, it had been —

"Hey, I started your leftovers. You weren’t gonna eat them, right?"

"You should see the video I sent you. It’s so us."

"You look tired. Work’s still rough?"

And then he had touched her shoulder. Kissed her cheek like it still belonged to him.

Every night she asked — calm, quiet, practiced:

“Can we talk?”

Every night he answered the same way:

“I don’t want to argue again, babe. I just want us to be okay.”

And maybe that was the hardest part. He didn’t yell. He didn’t curse. He wasn’t cruel. He said he loved her all the time. Whispered it into her collarbone. Texted it in lowercase letters at midnight. Left it in voicemails when he knew she wouldn’t answer.

“I love you. I just don’t know how to fix this. And I don’t want to hurt you anymore.”

But he never tried to fix anything. Never took his medicine. Never packed a bag to stay with his father, even though she asked. Never applied for the job she found for him. Didn’t follow up with therapists. Never followed through.

Just said he loved her. And that he was scared they’d always end up back in this place.

He’d been scared for five years.

She had offered every solution, held open every door, turned her entire life into an open palm. But love was all he gave back, in words. Love with no motion, no tools, no hands.

And still, she missed him before the door even latched behind him.

She walked into the living room, where his presence still clung like steam. Blanket tangled. Plate unwashed. His book cracked open to the same page as always. A pair of socks crumpled beneath the coffee table like they belonged.

They talked every day. They didn’t kiss anymore. There were long embraces that felt like new beginnings and closure at the same time. But he wouldn’t stay. Not really. He said he didn’t want to make her sad, but he already did. He said he didn’t want to leave her broken, but still came back half-whole, each time a little more undone.

She had written him four messages earlier that week and never sent a single one.

I know you love me. But it’s not enough.

I feel like a place you rest, not a person you choose.

I’m tired of feeling like your caretaker.

Please. I need more.

She hadn’t sent them because, by morning, he’d be there again. Eating toast in her kitchen. Clicking through her shows. Smiling like nothing had ever broken.

She opened her phone now, out of habit.

His name wasn’t there.

Not blocked. Not ghosted.

But his accounts were private again. No new stories. No trace of her in his digital life. Just like last time. And the time before that.

And just like three years ago — when he drifted away without explanation and only came back after his mother died — he had left his things behind. Left his hoodie on her chair. Left a charger tangled beneath her nightstand. Left enough of himself that she’d hesitate to call it absence. She had packed it all, one night with the company of a box of wine. It sat in labeled boxes in the garage for months. When he returned, he complained she had damaged items. Packed things haphazardly. Scolded her for making it difficult to find what he needed.

But this time, she understood.

It wasn’t love keeping him from leaving. It was fear. Not fear of hurting her — but fear of doing the real work. Of being known. Of standing still long enough to be seen.

And she couldn’t carry both of them anymore.

She opened the closet and pulled out a brown paper bag. Folded back the top. Added his hoodie. The charger. The tiny heart-shaped rock he once gave her after a walk, when they still laughed easily. The vitamins he never took. The mug he always reached for. A note he once wrote on a gum wrapper:

“If I mess this up, it’s because I don’t know how to be good. Not because I don’t love you.”

She read it again. Folded it twice. Tucked it in.

Outside, the rain deepened slightly, as if the sky had finally settled on a mood.

She placed the bag by the front door. Wrote his name on it with a Sharpie.

Not a threat. Not a plea.

Just a small act of letting go.

She came back inside. Picked up her phone. Sent one last message.

“Your things are on the porch, under the overhang, in the deck box. Security is on, and locks will be changed tomorrow.”

Deleted his past messages one by one. It was tedious, but it allowed her to feel she had accomplished multiple tasks today. Then opened her journal.

On the first clean page, she wrote:

He told me he loved me every day. But he never built us a home.

Then below that, smaller:

I was always trying to plant roots in someone who preferred floating.

She closed the journal. Pressed her hand over it like a seal.

This wasn’t the way to go about it. Opening the journal, she tore out those pages, burned them outside on the patio with his cigar lighter, and started again.

But here is what I did that was good:

The rain quieted.

And so did she as she wrote, and wrote, and wrote.