Yours (always),
Zach
P.S. I left your ring because I still want to build a life with you. I’ll want that whether it’s two months, or two years. That will never change. I want you to be happy. It’s the only thing I want, and if that means it’s without me, then I’ll figure it out, but no matter what, that ring is still yours.
The words blur and I have to wipe away the tears before they drop onto the paper. I read it again. Then a third time, hoping that I misread it, and it will say something different.
It doesn’t.
With each reread, I’m left feeling hollower than before.
My grip tightens on the page.
How does he get to say all of that—say that he loves me like that—and still leave?
I shake my head; the thought hitting too hard, too fast.
Because he’s right.
My chest tightens, and as much as I don’t want to admit it, I know he’s right. I hate it, but he is.
Every time I start to figure things out, he shows up. And every time he shows up, I fall back into the easy comfort of pushing him away instead of pushing myself forward.
Last night, when he told me he was leaving, my instincts took over. I didn’t want him to go, and at that moment, I convinced myself that choosing him was the right choice, and I was ready for whatever being with him meant.
But was I ready? Or was I just tired of trying to figure out who I am?
I don't know, and that's exactly his point.
My hands are shaking as I set the letter down and pick up the blue velvet box. I stare at it for a long moment, my thumb tracing the worn edges, before I finally open it.
The ring sits there, shining in the morning light. Everything about this ring is perfect. The gold honeycomb band, the beautiful diamond in the center—it’s everything I could’ve wanted, and nothing I’d have been able to imagine. Zach did, though, because he knows me better than I know myself.
I close the box with a snap, my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
He left.
I don’t want him to go,
I grab my phone off the nightstand where it's been charging all night. My hands are still shaking as I unlock it and pull up his contact.
It's a photo of us from his first ever game at St. Michael's. He's holding me in a piggyback, smiling because he just won the game. I'm smiling, too because it was before everything went to shit. We both look so happy. So sure of each other.
My thumb hovers over his name for what feels like an eternity.
Call him.
Don't call him.
Call him.
Don't.
The decision oscillates in my mind, over and over again.
What would calling him accomplish?
He'd answer and explain everything he did in the letter. He wouldn't come back. I know Zach well enough to know that when he makes a decision, it's final.
