At 4am I decide to write you a letter.
We discovered long ago that there was nothing left to say; but tonight, words bleed onto the page thick and fast. Paper absorbing black ink like bandages stained crimson; my heart is pumping blood around my body, through my fingers, and onto these lines.
I remember the day this room became my own; everything felt so perfect. I owned almost nothing of anything, and that is why my belongings fitted nicely. There was space to burn. I lay spread-eagled on the floor and stared at the ceiling. It wasn’t until many months later, when I lay in the same spot, that I began to feel it pressing down on me with the weight of all things going wrong.
That night we sat on the deck, surrounded by fairy lights, cigarette smoke and whiskey-blurred thoughts. Two of the greatest people I have ever known played cards and laughed, knocking over wine glasses and singing along. You leaned across and whispered in my ear, I can’t remember your words but I remember my contented smile.
The next morning, the world seemed to be a wall of headaches and nausea, and we delayed the unpacking of boxes for one more day.
Over the next few months, the world shrank to exclude all but this house, my entire universe was contained within our walls and on the breeze with the music we chose. I couldn’t imagine anything else, I forgot how life used to be, and forgot to be terrified of how it would be in years to come. In the thick air and creamy colours of this house, I was content.
It didn’t all tumble down at once; it was gradual and it tip-toed up behind us in the dead cold of winter. One day it started raining, a few coarse words sent drifting through the air between us, and somehow we welcomed the change. Then all of a sudden, we were up to our thighs in storm water and hatred; and there was no going back.
You made one final attempt to wade through it and back to dry land, but in all honesty I was sick of your voice. Taking the high road didn’t look good on either of us, and tonight, finally, I realise it.
The weather had shifted permanently; we had both grown out of each other.
When I’m finished, I sign your letter with a kiss but I don’t pretend to mean it. Now that my heart is pressed between these pages, I leave.