A fictionalized account of leaving after betrayal.
I had been with him for two years and was spending much of my time at his place while dealing with health problems. Then I walked in and found another woman in his bed.
The immediate aftermath was less cinematic than the discovery. I needed my things back. Some were missing from the bags he returned; I had to ask again. When he arrived with her in the passenger seat, I was angry enough that the exchange became another scene I later wished I could revise.
Three months passed. I worked on my health, saw people I trusted, and tried to make daily life less connected to what he was doing. Some days were easier. Others involved remembering a small, pleasant part of the relationship and feeling foolish for missing it.
Then he contacted me with complaints about his new situation. I felt a brief satisfaction before realizing that listening would put me back in a familiar role: organizing my attention around his problems.
I did not know the full story of their relationship. I did not need to. His unhappiness was neither proof of cosmic justice nor a reason for me to reopen the arrangement he had broken.
I could refuse the conversation while still acknowledging that I was not magically beyond every feeling. Moving on did not require becoming indifferent on schedule.
The belongings were finally returned. They were ordinary things, but having them in my own space mattered. I wanted fewer unfinished transactions between us, not better reports about how badly he was doing without me.
