“Hey. Worked sucked as usual. I swear I hate that place and those people,” he said has he walked into their bedroom.

He sat on the edge of the bed and removed his shoes and socks while griping about his day, his life, his family, his friends. He talked and talked and talked and honestly it was the most he’d spoken to her in three months. It all came tumbling out of him like he had been saving all of these words for this specific moment. Like he knew on a subconscious level what was coming but if he stopped talking he’d have to look it full in the face and deal with the consequences, so if he kept filibustering, things would never change.

Things could never change. He needed things to never change, though he knew in his heart of hearts that they already had, that with each passing day, they were coming unglued and it wasn’t just the kind of glue that kept two objects together, no, it was supposed to be some industrial strength super glue that kept their so many millions of delicate pieces together as one forever and always.

But every day, there was a tiny hammer hitting their cracks, threatening to shatter and scatter them forever and always. And wasn’t love supposed to be eternal? Wasn’t theirs the forever kind that could overcome all obstacles? That’s what she said. That’s what she said for years and years and she even wrote it on scraps of paper during biology or French class and he saved them all even though she didn’t know it because if he kept them, it would be true. Isn’t that how it worked?

He’d been feeling manic and dizzy for weeks, but when he work up that morning, he knew that something would irrevocably change them by the end of the day and it sat like a hollow and full at the same time pit in his stomach and it grew and grew as the day wore on and he couldn’t eat and he couldn’t settle it even though he tried and tried. His drive home was tense and sickening. The reality of his present was hitting him with the force of a tsunami and it was pulling him under and thrashing him around and making him raw and he couldn’t catch his breath and all he wanted to do was just catch his breath and go on living with this woman who was too good for his love and he always knew it and she only just realized it.

He managed to make it to their neighborhood in one piece despite having blacked out the entire drive over. He saw their house but he couldn’t bring himself to pull up, not yet, so he circled the street ten or twelve times until the old woman three doors down began eying him suspiciously and acting like she was calling the police. He had to do it. He had to park. He had to go inside. He had to face her. But maybe if he acted normal then everything could go back to normal. Maybe if he could make himself act like he still loved her, he could love her again. Maybe he could. Maybe he could. Maybe he could. Maybe he would. Maybe they would. Maybe he did. Maybe this was just a blip in the road and maybe they were strong enough to get through this. Maybe.

He wasn’t confident that he was that good an actor, though.

He parked. He stepped inside. Their house was dark and quiet. It was six o’clock. Her car was in the driveway. The lights should be on. She should be cooking dinner and singing off-key to Beyonce like always. Her favorite time of day. That’s how it should be.

There was a light. It was flowing from the slat between the bedroom door and the floor, beckoning him to walk head on into his doom. Come. Come. Come.

He walked into their bedroom but didn’t look at her. He just started talking and talking and talking and didn’t look at her, not for a second, because then he’d see the way she was sitting in the middle of the bed.

He’d see that she was folded into herself. He’d see that her hair flew astray and that there were dry tears on her cheeks and that she was defeated yet ready to deliver the blow. He’d see that she hadn’t done anything all day but sit in that one spot on the bed thinking and crying and summoning the courage and the words to end it and that was just a finality that he could not, would not accept. Not now, not ever.

“Wyatt,” she said in a small dry, cracking voice. It was the first time she spoke that entire day. He heard her but chose to ignore her. If he ignored her, then it wouldn’t happen.

She cleared her throat. “Wyatt,” she said louder this time, “Wyatt, turn around. Wyatt, sit down, please.”

His shoulders slumped. His eyes welled with tears. He sat down, facing her, fearing that this could be the last time he’d be able to drink her in. Fearing that her grief-stricken face would forever haunt and mar the happy and beautiful memories of her.

“Wyatt,” she said. She was crying. She was radiant and she was crying.

“No,” he said.

“Wyatt, listen. I think we need to take a break.”

“No.”

“Please don’t do this. I’m not happy. You’re not happy. We don’t love each other anymore. We’re not living.”

“No.”

“Wyatt, look at me. Look at me! Do you think this is easy for me? I will always love you, but we both need time to figure out what we really want, who we really want to be.”

“I want you.”

“No you don’t, because if you did, you’d talk to me. You’d look at me. You’d touch me. You’d kiss me. You’d hug me. You’d make love to me. You’d go places with me. You don’t want me anymore and that’s okay. I can live with that. But I can’t live with you lying to yourself about it.”

“I’m not.”

She grabbed his hand. They were both crying freely. She said, “We need to take a break, Wyatt.”

“No.”

“We need a break.”

“No.”

“I need a break.”

She said it. She actually said it. “But what am I supposed to do now?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” she said.

She got up to sit in the darkness of the living room, alone.