Mya Doesn’t Care

Scene from a novel I’m kind of sort of thinking about writing fully

Chapter One – Gone
Part One

Why won’t you fight for me? His eyes ask.
I can’t. The thought of doing so makes me almost nauseas.
The vulnerability.
He wants more from me.
A declaration of love that I can’t give. I can’t be that open to him. It’s terrifying.
His eyes look sad and it hurts me but I can’t give him what he wants.
Yet, I expect his affirmations. When he tells me he misses me, calls me pet names, kisses the palm of my hand, hugs me tightly. I hold on to those moments like precious jewels. Heart tightens at remembrances of those moments.

And there are times for me too when I want to give them back to him. The words wet the tip of my tongue like a sweet wine but I can’t let them loose. I panic. I can’t even text or email him a cute message. It should be easier that way but it feels foreign to me physically and yet emotionally right.

I can’t reconcile it all.

And now, when he tells me he may leave for the job offer almost half way across the country, I simply sit and look down at my feet. I’m overwhelmed with a sense of loss but I can’t tell him that. Instead I inspect my gray pointy toed heels. There is a scuff mark on the tip of the left shoe and I want to lean down and wipe it off but I’m afraid I’d look too indifferent by doing so. I want him to see in my behavior what I can’t say aloud. I want to look as pitiful as possible.

I bite my lower lip, then sigh. I don’t want to lose him but I can’t admit how I feel. I don’t want him to have power over me. To know that his actions affect me so strongly.

Yes, he put himself out there by saying how much he cared about me. That he loved me. But as much as I loved to hear them, past experience taught me that those were just words. They did not necessarily mean he’d always be there. I could never rely on them.

He sits beside me on the couch and grabs my hands and I stare at them. I love holding his hands. That connection felt wonderful. I felt part of something special.

But I hated to touch him in public. I secretly laughed at those people who walked around hand in hand. It seemed pretentious. Even corny. I hated when he tried to hold my hand. Especially in front of friends. I didn’t want them to see how close we were. Didn’t want them to have evidence of how much I cared when he broke my heart. It would be humiliating.

But in private that was different. I could hardly be near him without touching him. He kisses both of my hands slowly and I sigh again.

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