Easy Farewell is an Oxymoron

It was raining the day that I broke his heart. Isn’t that so cliché? It felt like I was the main character in the song of some cheesy pop star capitalizing on her first big, public breakup. Not that I blame the cheesy pop stars here; there’s something undeniably cinematic about the rain coming down in droves while you crush the heart of someone you love deeply between your bare hands, wringing out blood. I can still feel the gooey, red liquid dripping all over my hands now, even though this scene is metaphorical and therefore not real, and if it was, the blood would be dry and flaking off by now. I have an active imagination like that.

So, it was raining that night, hard enough that you couldn’t see the tears streaming down my cheeks. Why am I crying? I recall thinking. I’m the one breaking up with him. Still, tears carved their paths across my face and snot dripped out of a nostril. I could taste it. Gross.

When I imagined this moment, I was a warrior. A queen, cruelly denying happiness to a man who had done nothing wrong. (A twisted fantasy, for sure, but I’ve always been a little screwed up in that way.) (Ask anyone.) Instead, I felt weak. My lips and hands quivered alike. And yet I uttered the words.

“I think we should see other people.”

My voice hitched uncomfortably. So much for badass. And why did I say that? No, actually… why is that the default saying? I don’t think we should see other people, in all truthfulness; I just want to stop seeing you.

The rain pouring brought out the acrid scent of soil from the suburbs around us, and my nose wrinkled involuntarily. He was feet away from his front door. I was miles away from mine. Nowhere for me to run. I did that to myself, subconsciously, I think. I knew I didn’t deserve an out.

He didn’t cry, not then. Later, he would. He’d sob, hitching breaths, and wonder what he did wrong. Nothing, I pleaded silently. You did it all right. I’m just molding inside.

“Why?” he asked quietly. No stuttering. It surprised me almost as much as it impressed me. Between us, I was always the strong one.

I wasn’t strong then. At least, not strong enough to actually communicate. I looked down, which was enough of an answer for him. (He could always read me like that.) Pain present on his face, he turned away: away from me, away from the last three years of our lives, away from carnival dates and sticky ice cream kisses and hugs in which it felt like we were holding each other together. My hands still shook.

“Goodbye.”