Dry

Thirty days.

That was the agreed-upon timeline. It wasn't a decision we came to lightly; in fact, it was a miracle that we were able to decide on anything. All we did was fight these days. We would fight about the overwhelmingly obvious codependency that defined our relationship, and in that same breath, quickly oscillate to the suffocating feeling of fear when thinking about life apart. When you've spent over a decade of your life together, having celebrated birthdays, holidays, job promotions and gut-wrenching losses, the idea of such a large absence felt ugly and unwieldy.

At first, it was just going to be a weekend apart, but we had tried that before, so many times before it was almost comical. I knew how it would go. It would be two days of excruciating dullness and willing the hours to pass more quickly, eyes darting to the clock, afraid to see how slowly time was moving. But always, the discomfort would slowly start to ease, muscles loosened, breathing slowed. And right around the time the notion that I could live without him, maybe even thrive, crept into my mind, the buzzer would go off. You could almost hear the collective sigh of relief. We came charging back into each other's lives, like no time had passed, and yet like we had been separated for eons. And after a brief period of normalcy, chaos ensued, as usual. It always did.

In reality, two days was nothing. This time, I needed more.

"Seriously?" he had sneered when I proposed a month of no contact, no interaction, nothing. "Anything more than a weekend is ridiculous. What are you going to do without me for more than that?" Then, swinging abruptly from distain to sympathy, "I'm worried about you. Why would you put yourself through all this discomfort willingly? It's so much easier when we're together."

He was right. It was infinitely easier to rely on him, than it was to navigate the world alone. To know that coming home from a long day of work meant the two of us, curled up on the couch, the frustrations of the day melting away. He was always the first one who wanted to celebrate when someone good happened in my life. But, there was no way I could learn how to live without him, with him always hovering in my orbit. Even when we weren't in the same room, the same house, he was always on my mind. When would I see him again? When, when, when.

I couldn't say much about those first days out of our month apart, other than it felt like I was in bed more than I was out of it. I had heard from friends who had gone through this, that the most important thing was to take care of yourself. But self-care had been at the bottom of my to-do list for years. The concept felt foreign to me, like a language I learned when I was a child and had since forgotten, but could vaguely remember.

As that weekend morphed into the first week alone, the gloom still hung over me, but it felt more like a subtle buzzing in the background than an unavoidable darkness. It occurred to me by the end of the first week, that I was waking up refreshed, my brain feeling like it had been deep cleaned as I slept. Huh.

The thoughts of him were present, almost always, but operated in the periphery of my mind. I knew I wouldn't forget he existed within this thirty day time frame, nor did I want to. I tried to fill in the gaps his absence left as best I could: I started a new book for the first time in years. I finally got down the cookbook my grandmother had given me when I graduated, and after nearly burning my kitchen down, happily dug into a haphazard but delicious bowl of linguine bolognese. My focus felt sharp, my patience for myself and my environment growing with each day. I started running again, albeit more walking than running. My sister and I talked more on the phone in that timespan than we had since we were kids.

And suddenly, the buzzer went off. It was Day Thirty One.

This was the day we agreed to reconvene, to reexamine our lives apart. Discuss a reconciliation. We agreed there was no better place to meet than Murphy's, a place that held years of our history, good and bad. As I pushed open the slightly sticky wooden door of the pub and stepped inside, I realized this was the longest we had gone apart since my first year of college.

I could feel my heart rate quicken the way it always did when I knew I was about to see him. I suddenly had a flashback of our first meeting. Not quite what you'd consider a meet-cute. We met in the damp basement of some upperclassman's party. It was the first week of freshman year, and I was a nervous wreck, barely able to breathe as I shouldered my way through a crowd of unfamiliar faces. That's when I saw him, leaning against the table, looking cool and unflappable, the antithesis of my raging anxiety. It took one look to realize he was exactly what I needed, and from our first interaction, the trajectory of my entire night - my entire life - was altered.

I didn't even have to scan the dimly lit pub to know where he be. We always sat at the same corner booth together, where we could watch other patrons live out their lives, feeling like we were invincible in our own little world.

I slid into the booth, the worn vinyl seats groaning beneath my weight. As I took off my coat and scarf, I couldn't help but stare at him. He stared back, almost taunting me to speak.

"Well?" he uttered.

He looked at me eagerly, like we were actors in a play and he was ready to jump in if I forgot my line. He knew the script well, as did I.

I was supposed to say:

You were right. I was absolutely miserable without you! Even when I felt good, it wasn't real. I was just faking it until we could be together again. You make everything better. I was dumb to think I was capable of being a normal human being without you.

I opened my mouth. It suddenly felt like my lungs were full of sawdust. I knew what I had to say, and the time was now.

"I'm...done," I squeaked, squeezing the words out of my throat. "I don't want to do this anymore. I can't do this anymore."

He stared blankly at me, the words not registering.

I inhaled deeply and continued. "I actually felt...good...for once this last month. Good about myself and about the world. Feelings I haven't felt in years. Like I was reentering my body after drifting aimlessly for so long. I didn't realize all the self-loathing I was carrying around. And my God, my sleep! Did you know how much you were ruining my sleep?"

I could feel my chest unfurling, my mind clear. Now was the time to be honest.

"I wish I had known all of this before I met you. I wish I had known how hard it would be to dig out from the hole we've created together." I paused. "But I'm sure as hell willing to keep digging."

I could feel the disbelief radiating off of him. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Do I need to remind you? I'm everywhere you are," he sputtered. "I'll be at your best friend's barbecue. Your sister's wedding. Your office holiday party. Do you really think you can avoid me for the rest of your life? Because if that's your approach, good luck with that," he spat, his voice dripping with contempt.

We could both be right, I realized. He will be impossible to avoid in my future and yet, I'm doing the right thing by ending this once and for all.

I smiled, in spite of everything. "I'm going to stay sober," I said. "I'm doing it. I'm done drinking. You don't control me anymore."

Emotion washed over me. I blinked rapidly, trying to hold back tears. I watched as my perception of him melted away every time I opened my eyes again. This was really it, an end to the longest relationship in my life. He began to morph across the table from me, changing shape from best friend to worst enemy, from confidant to traitor. From innocuous to poisonous.

Finally, he settled into the form he was before we met, and would continue to be for somebody else.

A vodka soda, with a slice of lime, as always. My faithful sidekick, my superpower. It turns out, it was my kryptonite.

I leaned across the table. 'You're just alcohol," I whispered.

With that, I stood up, left a tip for the bartender on the table, and walked out into the dusky twilight.