It was always so loud, so obvious, the silence between us and the empty space in my bed from when you walked out some nights.
You always came back though, vodka on your breath, sometimes whole, with blooming bruises on your neck and other times so broken that I would tuck you in bed with a soft kiss on your forehead and you’d grab my hand, maybe say you loved me.
I used to think my life was grey until you walked in, I loved telling my friends that you made me see the world in technicolor, but now I wish I’d stayed color blind because I can’t live without it (or you).
I dream about our lazy Sunday mornings still, when you woke me up with your touch, your unhurried kisses that made me forget my religion and made you my everything.
I remember the day my mother invited you over for dinner and I forgot to tell her you were on a diet, she smiled at you and served that extra slice of lasagna on your plate, you ate it with no complaints and kissed me goodnight on my doorstep.
I remember the way it felt to walk with your fingers entwined in mine. I remember the way my fingers sank in your hair even though you hated for it to be touched.
But the sun set on us in 36 weeks. You slept on the lumpy couch and I, on our Egyptian cotton pillows, found no sleep.
That last fight rattled our glass windows, words ricocheting like bullets meant to be lethal. The door that slammed in your wake, the mess I made of myself on the cold floor waiting.
I saw you, yesterday. You crossed the road, looked right through me and it broke my heart but I did the same.
– Akhila Menon