You Have to Open the Damn Box

 “Okay, babe, yes, that sounds good,” I pass the phone into my other hand, glancing at my reflection in the mirror still hanging on the wall. I listen to Rob talk about dinner plans and what we would do tonight when we arrived at the new apartment. I mumble my agreement as I take the mirror down. I try to not look at my eyes, missing circles of age, or my forehead, smooth and youthful, or my hair, which should’ve been greying years ago. 

I tell my fiancé I love him, and to drive home safely from work. I walk into the living room, continuing to pack up our things.  

I hear a faint, almost hesitant knock. Assuming it was my takeout, I open the door without first looking through the peephole. Instead of food though, there’s an old, heart-shaped, paper mache box. My heart plummets as I stand there in disbelief. 

Questions race through my head, my thoughts too jumbled to sort through. Robotically, I drop to my knees and pull the box into my lap. I trace the lid with my fingers, over and over, trying hard to catch my breath and not let my tears spill over onto the faded box. 

My hands are shaking as I pick up the box, its contents rattling inside. 

I know this means he wants to see me. I know this means he searched through countless identities and addresses to find me, even though he said decades ago that he wouldn’t.

I know because we’re the same. I could predict the next city he will live in, the next alias he will take on, the next career he will fake his way into. 

That’s what made us so good together, the fact that we were both forced to live these never-ending lives. We understood each other, understood the pain. We were made to spend forever together. 

Our level of connection was deeper than any other bond. More than marriage, and soulmates, and life partners. Our promise was forever. 

He knew this, and still, he broke that promise and shattered me anyway. 

In the beginning, I healed my heart with staples. Every breath and every memory cut deeper and deeper, the scar tissue surrounding any thoughts of him. The days were spent in agony, the years dragging by with every slice and tear. I thought of trying to track him down and demand he talk to me, but I couldn’t bring myself to lose him a second time. 

After that, I tried to put my heart back together with glue. I replaced him with lover after lover, trying every brand and strength of glue there is. I found him in everyone, the sound of his laugh, the way he looked at me, the feel of his hair in my fingers, the exact shape of his eyebrows, the exact color of his skin. I was in hell for those years, when I realized no one could fill the gaping hole he left behind. 

That’s when I started stitching my wounded heart. I knew he wasn’t coming back, I had to survive. I had to stitch together my pieces and forget the past. I had to convince myself he didn’t want me anymore. I had to bury any memory of him, any picture, any thought. I forced myself to stop thinking of him and stop dreaming of him. At this point, I was doing okay. 

When I met Rob, I was healed, or as much as could be expected. Rob was different from him in every way, exactly what I needed. He knows and accepts everything about me, so when he proposed, I didn’t hesitate. I’m doing good with Rob. I was doing well. 

Then that damn box shows up at my door. And just like that, I’m back to level zero, worse than before. My stitches are coming undone, my glue flaking off, and my staples ripping out. This time, broken bits of glass are shoving into my heart. 

I am in pain again because of him. I shouldn’t feel like this, he can’t make me feel like this. I stand up too fast, fueled by my anger, and leave the box in the hallway, slamming the door shut. I hold my head in my hands, sinking to the floor in silent sobs. 

Part of my anger comes from the fact that I’ve been pretending all these years. I’m done pretending like he means nothing to me when he means everything. 

I thought I would have two options, either to finish packing and leave with Rob, forget I ever saw the box at all and leave it sitting right here, or to open up the box and see what he has to say. 

But there’s only one choice. I have to let Rob go. 

I love Rob. He knows about me and loves me regardless. I’ll be lucky to spend the rest of his life with him. 

But that’s the thing. It would be the rest of his life, not mine. Rob couldn’t relate to my struggle like he did. It’s stupidly selfish to expect Rob to rearrange his life for me. To pack up and move every few years when people start to notice. Our marriage could never work. Even if we did figure this out together, he will grow up, and age, and wither. People would one day mistake him as my grandfather. 

I don’t want to break him like I’ve been broken, but marrying him would only deny him happiness, like I’ve denied myself for so long. 

I open the door and pick up the box. 

Knowing how badly he hurt me, knowing all the promises he made me, my heart still aches for him. For the chance to see him again, to glimpse his shadow, to look into his eyes, to catch the scent of his cologne, to experience that same level of utter passion. Any heartbreak would be worth it. 

A love like that never goes away. You can do everything possible to pretend it didn’t happen, to forget the feelings, to convince yourself that you’ve moved on. But you can’t hide from it, no matter how hard you try. 

You have to open the damn box.