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After all of this, after everything we’ve done together, he wants me to leave.
He wants to be done with me.
My heart hurts, thudding recklessly in my chest. I rub at it, but it does nothing to quell the ache. This has to be a mistake, I think before discarding it. I don’t know how much more clear it can be. He’s done with me.
He had divorce papers served to me.
Well then fuck him, my mind shouts as I toss them in the garbage. They stare up at me from inside, laughing at me. Mocking me with a future I know I don’t deserve. This is the karma I knew would come for me.
I was a bad person, hurt so many, and here I am being ripped apart.
I stuff them down further, coating them in food and spilled coffee grounds. But still, they mock me, jeering from their confines.
I pace the kitchen and then come to a decision.
I’m not fucking divorcing him. I wanted it for ages and he refused, so he’s stuck with me. He can’t pull this rug out from under me.
Not after all this.
I told him I love him.
I’ll fight for it. I’ll make this work, make myself good enough for him or die trying.
I wrench the paperwork from the bin, and I stomp down to the beach, my legs trembling as I try to walk. But my ankles give out and I stumble, falling to my knees, my eyes wet and hazy. It’s all falling apart. It’s all coming crashing down.
The end. This is the end.
I lift my head and see the thrashing waves before me, the crash of white on sand. Pushing up, I stride toward them, the legs of my pants getting wet, the wind slapping my exposed skin in a frenzy.
A storm is coming, the mist growing bleak and dreary, just like my heart. An ominous thing. It showcases my life, a linear line into the future. Dark and bleak.
With the strength of a hundred heartbreaks, I toss the packet of papers toward the waves, trying to release this heartbreak back to Mother Earth, but she just laughs in my face and sends it blowing back to me, hitting me right in the chest. I grapple with it and try again, watching as she wafts it onto the sand near my feet. The papers are heavy now, wet, the ink bleeding through the translucent sheets, but still, they won’t go, they won’t leave.
A sign? A sign that maybe I should sign them and move on.
I should just give up and let go.
I’m not loveable. I’m unloved.
By the time the cop arrives, a ticket in hand, I’m sobbing. Tears staining my cheeks, the paperwork a soggy mess in one hand, a ticket for littering in the other.
Well, fine. If he wants a divorce so badly. He can have it.
I give up. So much for fighting till the end for it. For us.
I love him, but it’s not enough.
I never was enough.
I trudge back to the loft, my clothes wet, my body shaking, my eyes a red, swimming mess. And as soon as I enter, Coop is there, looking beautiful and perfect, a man out to break my already shattered, weak heart.
He’s rubbing it in, showing me without words how much he doesn’t love me at all.
“What on earth? Why are you dripping wet?” he asks when he sees me, half windblown and knocked over. My face is a red, splotchy mess, my nose dripping with snot.
I run my hand across it and throw the papers at his feet. They settle there with a very unsatisfying plop.
“I get it. I’ll leave,” I hiss, well more of a sob, but I try like hell to keep it together.
