Three Words.

She sits, silent.

The silence between us is so tangible that I could touch it if I tried – but my fingers are laced together in tense, white structures that mock the atmosphere of indifference that I’m trying to project. I haven’t said anything since those final, damning words that shattered her world. And neither has she.

Lips open, then close again. One strand of hair has fallen down across her face, and it’s then that I realise that she’s crying – tears streaming silently down her cheeks and splashing into her coffee. Automatically, I reach forward to wipe them away, before remembering that I gave away that right a long time ago. Instead, I take my coffee and take a long, hard draught that burns the back of my throat. I don’t wince.

“How long?”

”Does it matter?”

She falls silent again. An apology hovers on my lips – I didn’t need to sound so harsh, but, on the other hand, she won’t want kindness and soothing words. Not now. I can’t meet her eyes – the same eyes that once, I gazed into and uttered those three words. Maybe I should have never said them. She’s determinedly staring at the couple in the booth next to us, currently in their own world of whispered compliments and blushes as they enjoy lunch together.

How ironic.

I remember times when we were just like that couple – just two people, madly in love with each other, enjoying each other’s company and content with watching the world go by from the small place in the world that we’d made ourselves. I remember when I could reach out blindly in the night and make contact with a comforting embrace and a muttered reassurance before drifting off to sleep again. I remember when things were different. And I remember when things changed.

“Who?”

“Does that matter?”

This time, the urgency of the last question is replaced by something else ; sorrow? Acceptance? Thin fingers have wrapped themselves around their mug, seeking warmth and solidity in a time when I can offer none. I can recall when I would wrap my arms around her and swear never to leave her. Funny how that seems a long way away now. Knowing that she’ll probably never let me touch her again tends to help with that sort of thing.

I’m watching her intently, although I still can’t meet her gaze. I can tell she’s doing the same to me. What I must look like to her – sat, hunched in this chair, looking like a little boy waiting inside the headmaster’s office, tail between legs. If the bags underneath my eyes are anywhere near as pronounced as they were this morning, then I must look pretty awful. The word “dishevelled” comes to mind...as does the word “idiot” and “imbecile”, but what’s new?

I can tell that’s what she’s thinking too. There’s an element of sadness, and almost affection in her gaze as she sizes me up, looking me up and down. Re-evaluating me. Lips part – oh, sweet temptation - again, and she asks another question I cannot answer.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

The concept isn’t a new one. I’ve spent the past few months considering the very same question – why? I won’t say the obvious answer, the one that she’s dreading. I wouldn’t want to shatter her self-image any more than I already have. I should tell her that it’s not her fault, that it’s not anything that she did or said, but I can’t bring myself to, even though I know that’s the thought that’s preying on her mind, the one that’ll keep her awake tonight. Suddenly, the image of her lying awake in her bed – our bed, dammit – swims into my mind, and I tears jump to my eyes before they’re quashed back down again. I’ve got no right to cry.

Then again, she could be asking why I chose to tell her, why today. Of course, she doesn’t know, but today’s the day that I found out. I’m waiting for the possibility to hit her, because it will in a minute. This is the moment I’m dreading – the moment when her eyes widen, her shoulders tense, and another illusion is ruined.

”Did you – “

“Yes.”

“Is she – “

“Yes.”

This new information sinks in, and she’s remarkably calm. I had braced myself for a dramatic scene of drinks being thrown, faces being slapped, and a heated exchange cumulating in somebody walking out in anger. But instead, she’s sitting there, her cheeks still damp, but utterly calm. There was a time when I’d be able to tell exactly how she was feeling, but this person sitting in front of me is a stranger now. She, with her face pale and drawn, her fingers still wrapped around her mug, and her large eyes baleful and compassionate. Compassionate? How can she be compassionate at a time like this? The depth of her character surprises me, even now, after knowing her for what seems like a lifetime. Another strand of hair falls across her face, and again, I resist the temptation to guide that wayward strand of chestnut back where it belongs.
Instead, she brings up a thin hand – so thin, when did that happen? – and brushes it aside herself, fingers shaking slightly in a way that I suspect has something to do with the chill in the air between us. Nothing tangible, of course – but still, it’s there, lurking in the foot-and-a-half of space between her lips and mine. It might as well be a mile.

“I forgive –“

”Don’t.”

This revelation is something new to me – something that has to be stopped before it breaks my heart. I can handle living with what I’ve done. What I can’t live with is knowing that she’s forgiven me. What I did was unforgivable. At the very least, it’s a horrific breach of trust on my part, and an awful lack of judgement. At the worst – well, I don’t even want to think about that.

But still, she sits there. She hasn’t walked out, she hasn’t screamed, and she’s barely cried. Instead, she remains, stock-still, staring at me with quiet assurance. I can’t handle this. The pain that’s been nagging at me insistently for the past few months rises unexpectedly, manifesting itself in a lump in my throat that threatens to ruin my carefully crafted composure. And still, she sits demurely, completely calm. Just waiting for my response, although she knows that I won’t say anything. Instead, she speaks three words – three words so different from “I love you” – the three words that take the last of my composure and tear it to pieces.

“Go to her.”

“But – “

“She needs you more than I do.”

”But I – “

“Don’t. Just go.”

I stare at her, and she stares at me. For the first time since I saw her today, I look her in the eye, and deep pools of hurt look back while emotions, charged with that special energy that only hurt can give, fly between us in brief exchanges that only serve to remind me what we once had. Her eyes are shadowed, closed off to strangers, instead of their normal laughing, open state. It hurts to think that I’m a stranger now. She holds my gaze steadily, urging me with her eyes to leave.

And then a word, choked out from what seems like the depths of her soul, heart-rendering and utterly, utterly honest –

“Please.”

My eyes drop, as I stand up. I don’t say a word – what can be said? Instead, I grab my coat, pulling it on hurriedly with fumbling hands. I try to forget that they’re the same hands that once cupped her face and wiped away her tears; that they’re the same hands that held hers too many times to count. Instead, I concentrate on doing up the buttons, my fingers slipping as I feel the heat of her eyes on them, and the ghost of her fingers in mine.

And then I’m walking forwards, and she’s holding up one hand to stop me, and the feeling of her hand gently resting on my arm is more than I can bear. She’s still sitting, and I stop myself from giving her one last hug before I walk out of the café. I incline my head, and she pulls my arm towards her.

Silently, she drops her wedding ring into my palm, and that’s when I know it’s all over.