I calmly point out that there is clearly something wrong because we’d never spoken like this to each other before.
“Things are fine,” he snaps. “They’re fine.” (Uh-oh. Fine. The other danger word.)
“Can we meet up tonight? Talk about this in person?” I ask.
When
you overthink,
you change how you
act in, or react to, a situation.
And when you change how you act—
they change how they act.
And that is how the
spinning begins.
He mumbles something about being tired and “not wanting to get into all this right now,” (All this?) but agrees to meet up. In my mind, we were going to see each other and talk through this thing that was happening that I didn’t understand and seemed to have no apparent cause. In my head, things were going to be ok.
Things were not ok.
He met me in the courtyard near my house. He was leaning against a concrete wall, and when he saw me walking toward him, he turned his head away. Away. He had his arms folded across his chest protectively—closed off. All I can say is—it was really, really surreal. Weird, even. I know, not quite an eloquent phrase for a writer, but, alas. I mean, I guess I was still expecting him to be him. The person I thought I knew so well. The person that just days ago was talking about us and trust and how excited he was for the future. The person whose eyes had started to feel like home. And I’m telling you, there was none of that there. None of it. And it’s almost cliché to say, but when I tell you he looked like a stranger, I cannot stress it enough. I literally did not know the person I was looking at.
I walked up to him and he looks at me.
I force a smile. “Can I get a hug?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything, but stands up like it takes all the effort in the world. And he one-arm hugs me. (Ugh). I remember searching his eyes in that moment and silently pleading with him to open back up. To look like the person who had been my person just days ago.
That person was not there.
As we walked down the street, I could sense that all around me, people were heading excitedly into their Friday evenings. And then there was me. Walking next to a stranger.
I had been cast into some parallel universe where everything was falling apart at a time I had thought things were finally all coming together. I was walking next to a stranger that used to hold my hand. That used to laugh with me. That just the Friday before—was telling me I could trust him. And I should. But this stranger—he was responding to my sentences with one-word answers. For every question I asked, I got nearly silence. He literally offered nothing as input or answers or reasons. And the longer I looked at this person I had known so well—that I thought I had truly cared about—the longer it took to see him. Who was this? This closed-off, cold, passive-aggressive anchor that was dragging us both down at the same time?
We stopped walking and sat on these cold gray stairs on this side street in my neighborhood that I don’t think I’ll ever look the same way at again. During the first part of the conversation—if you can even call it that—he did really well to hold up the “You always read into things” and “nothing is wrong” story. But as time ticked by, he admitted that “maybe he’d been thinking about some things,” and “maybe he just didn’t know anymore.”
My. Absolute. Most. Favorite. Break. Up. Lines. Ever.
Now. I feel like, in hindsight, this was a learning moment. So I’ll tell you—when someone doesn’t know how they feel, then I’m sorry, love, but the answer is no. Unequivocally. Totally. No. I think most of us realize that in the rational part of our brains. But when we’re in the midst of the I can’t believe this is happening moment, we don’t always act with self-respect at the forefront of our decision making. It’s human.
I started getting frustrated with his lack of contribution to the conversation. His coldness. And so anger begins to take over the place concern used to be.
“So are you telling me your feelings have changed completely in a matter of—days? Because I’m pretty sure a few days ago, you were the one pulling me forward.”
He mutters another “I don’t know.” And like—completely shuts down. I sat there looking at this person and it honestly felt like I was living someone else’s life. I remember asking over and over, out loud and to myself, what is happening right now? I just totally didn’t understand where all this was coming from. So suddenly. So completely without some sort of catalyst that I could identify. Something to—make sense of it all.
But something clearly had changed for him.
And I don’t think I will ever know what it was—because despite all the words he had said about how much this had meant to him; this person didn’t even think I deserved the respect of an explanation. After a few more questions from me, followed by a few more one-word passive-aggressive answers from him, he stood up, and said, and I quote, “I’m done. I’m out.”
And he walked himself away from me. No goodbye. No looking back.
Just left me sitting on those cold concrete steps.
And this is the part that is hard to write, especially when I spend my life talking to you about the importance of self-respect. But I’m going to write it anyway. I’m going to tell you. And I’m going to do it because I promised you I’d be real.
I was so incredibly shocked by what was happening and still not understanding any part of the why—that I got up and I walked after him. I walked after the man whose back was facing me as he walked away from all the words he said he’d meant. The man who had offered me nothing in the conversation. Who had ended a relationship with “I’m out.” (What is that?) I walked after the man who was burning something down with no kindness and no maturity and absolutely no respect. I totally should have had some witty have a good life comment. I totally should have picked myself up and walked bravely in the opposite direction with my head held high.
But, I didn’t—and I give myself a pass for that. Because I cared about him. And I was confused. And frankly, yes, hurt and not ready to let it all go. Especially when I didn’t understand it.
I called his name. And—he literally did not even turn around.
I called it again. No response.
I walked faster.
When I caught up to him, I linked my arm with his in an effort to slow him down—and asked one final time. “What is happening right now? Why are you doing this? Why won’t you just tell me what is going on?”
His arm stiffened and he looked at me again coldly—and just said one last time—“I have nothing else to say. I’m done. I’m out.” And that man got in his car, slammed the door, and left me standing there watching him drive away.
If they don’t know how they feel—
then I’m sorry, but the answer is no.
And that is how it ended. Like that.
Now, just for context, I’m going to give you some additional details. I’ve been in my fair share of relationships. Most of them have lasted years. This one was not even close to that. We weren’t married. We didn’t live together. We didn’t have kids or joint bank accounts. And I guess that’s why it’s sort of ironic that something like this—like him—could prompt me to write an entire book. But life is like that, isn’t it? And since love is not some neat little mathematical equation—it doesn’t really have to make sense, does it?
I tell you this because I want you to know that how long you are together doesn’t really much matter, other than to predict how many knots there will