Drop
The apartment felt quieter than it ever had, even with both of us sitting on the couch we’d picked out together last spring. She was curled into the corner, knees drawn up under one of my old hoodies, eyes red but steady. I sat facing her, our hands linked on the cushion between us like we were still afraid to let go completely.
“I love you,” I said, voice low and rough. “You know that.”
She nodded, squeezing my fingers. “I love you too, . That’s never been the problem.”
Her words hit different tonight soft, final, already slipping into memory. We talked for a long time. About how our lives were pulling in opposite directions: her wanting to travel, to chase the career that would keep her moving city to city; me wanting family, a home base, the kind of stability I’d started craving after years of always being the strong one for her. We wanted different futures. And as much as we loved each other, forcing it felt unfair to both of us.
When the last words were said, I pulled her into my lap one final time and held her while she cried. She whispered
“Thank you for being my safe place” against my neck, and I kissed her hair and told her she’d always be my good girl, even if I couldn’t say it out loud anymore.
The next morning I helped her load the last boxes into her car. We stood in the driveway, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air for one last minute. Then she was gone.
The weeks that followed moved in slow, gray stretches.
I’d wake up reaching for her side of the bed before remembering it was empty. At the gym I’d catch myself scanning for her favorite playlist on my phone. Cooking dinner alone felt wrong without her stealing bites from the spoon or dancing behind me while the sauce simmered. Every night I’d pick up my phone, thumb hovering over her name, wanting to ask if she’d landed safely in the new city or if she’d tried that little café she kept talking about. I’d type
“Hey baby, just checking in…” and delete it before I could send. She deserved the space to grow without me holding on.
Across the miles, I know she did the same.
She told me once, in a voice note she never sent, that she still knelt sometimes at night just to feel grounded. That she’d see something funny and start typing a message to me before stopping herself. She hoped I was sleeping better. She hoped I was happy. She still called me Sir in her head when the world felt too heavy, even though she knew she shouldn’t.
She posted pictures from new cities, smiling brighter each time. We both kept living.
But some nights, when the rain hits the window just right or a certain song comes on, I still feel her head on my chest. I still hear her soft “Yes, Sir” in my mind and smile even while my heart aches.
We loved each other enough to let go.
And somewhere out there, I hope she’s thriving my beautiful, brave girl chasing the life she deserves. I hope she knows I’m doing the same, carrying the best parts of us with me every single day.
I never sent the text.
But I think of her every time I almost do.