“I need space.”

The funny thing about hearing the word space, is that it automatically makes room for itself.  The word space creates space – in your life, in your heart and even in this room, it shows itself.   Here it is now,  filled with a deafening silence. 

“So you want to break up with me?”  I asked.
“No.  I don’t want to break up.  I just want… a break. You know, to figure it all out.  To figure out if this is what I really want.”  

I swallow back a throat full of tears and say exactly what I think he means.
“To figure out if I’m what you really want?” 
“Yeah.” 

He said this with so much conviction and without any hesitation.  There was no doubt in his eyes, no emotion on his face.  He needs space and instantly, there is an infinite amount of space between us despite him sitting accross the table.

Space.

And there it is.

I’m staring at this man.  This man that I love whom I’ve shared the last three years with.  I’m staring at him, searching for the man I used to recognize.  That man wouldn’t have needed space and that man wouldn’t have even WANTED space but this man?  This man can’t even stand to look at me, and I can’t even stand to be here. 

I pick up my purse, throw the pieces of my shattered heart in, and run.   With each step the space between us increases.  I laugh at the irony of it all. The tears finally find their way out of my throat , make their way up and out of my eyeballs and fall onto my face when I finally make it home. 

My roomate looks startled to see me and asks me why I look so shitty.

I start to answer her and try to explain the best I can.  But with each spoken word, the “space” gets realer, and wider, and longer, and deeper. 

“We’re on a break.”

10:43 and I take my first shot of Crown.  With a water back.  (Who the fuck does that?!)    Three minutes later and I take my second.  Fuck, this tastes like shit.

The music is bumpin, my feet don’t hurt yet and I just checked my coat.  My girls and I head to the bathroom to fix our lipstick and gossip. 

And then I see him.   12:04 am.   How long has he been here?  How long have I not noticed him?   Damn he’s lookin’ MIGHTY dapper in his button up.  I open the door to the bathroom and freak the fuck out.   My girls notice my obvious awkwardness as I try to apply my lipstick – and do it wrong about 4 times.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“HE’s here.”
“And again.  What the fuck is wrong with you?  Just go say hi.”

They’re right.  I’ll just go over there and say hi. 
Hi.
Hello. 
Nice to see you. 
Fancy seeing you here. 
Can I buy you a drink?
Something like that.  Something that doesn’t make me sound like a bonafide lunatic or a loser.   I’m not sure which is worse.

12:10 am.  We walk out of the bar and my eyes immediately go to the spot I saw him last.   Nada.   I quickly scan the room in search of him while I still have the balls to actually say something to him.   Nothing.    Cool.  I can go on with my night.

12:28 and my girl whispers to me.
“He’s at the bar.  GO.”  
Fuck.  I turn around to the bar and sure enough, there he is.   Hectic insides are the DEATH OF ME.   I grab my girl’s Adios, take it to the face and run to the bathroom to make sure I haven’t already turned into a sloppy drunken wench.   Beer goggles on, I’m still lookin’ fly as fuck.   Here I go.

At exactly 12:32 I walk out of the bathroom and he’s still there.  One foot in front of the other till I get there as I’m rehearsing different ways to say “Hey.”   And then I hear it.  A small voice, calling him a really cutesy form of his name–which any self-respecting man would NEVER allow himself to be called in public unless… of course…it was… his girlfriend.   In the flesh.  Standing right next to him like she came out of his pocket.   

12:36 and we’re already in the car, leaving.  My girl starts the car.. “That place was wack anyway.  Where we going next?”   
“Drop me off in hell,” I say. “Oh wait, I’m already there.”  

Fuck my fucking life.

As I’m wrapping these picture frames in bubble wrap, I stop.   My erratic breathing catches and I actively force myself to swallow a throat full of tears. Surrounded by box after box after box of my clothes, shoes, pictures, and belongings, I feel a sense of displacement. 

I neither belong here nor there.  I no longer belong here, as I’m packing my things up.  I can’t stay here, I can’t leave myself here.  I don’t belong there yet… my future apartment is currently empty, dark, unknown.  I have not yet made any memories, imprinted any footmarks.  I belong in boxes, somewhere in between.  I am in limbo. 

My entire life as I’ve known it now fits into 10 boxes, into 1 U-haul, parked in 1 driveway.   I’ve never felt so small nor so insignificant, ever.   I take a second and vow to make a bigger difference, to create waves, to build opportunities and open my own doors.  I promise myself to be remarkable, starting today.   I tell myself that I am all that I have.   No one will be there to bail me out, pick me up, pay for my rent…. and I better not let myself down. 

I walk out into the driveway and see that look again.  I go down the line of people standing there, waiting.  Waiting for me to get up and leave.  Waiting for me to start a new life.  Waiting for me to drive off into the sunset so they can finally let themselves cry.   My mom, then my Dad, my sisters, my best friend, and then Him.  He is the last one in line.  

He hugs me.  He hugs me so tight, I can’t breathe.   
“I love you.  Don’t go.  Please.”

It could be so easy to just say fuck it.   Run back upstairs, unpack these measely 10 boxes into my old room, order pizza, and resume my life.   But as much as I’m unsure about my future, I do know this: I know that I do not belong here. 

After he hugs me, I grab his hand.   It’s a hand that I’ve grown to love over the course of our relationship.  It’s the hand that held mine as we walked down the street to dinner.   The same hand that comforted me when I was sick and wiped away the tears from the loss of my grandmother.    Its the hand that caresses my face in bed and points at me during our uncontrollable bits of laughter.  I know this hand as it has become my safety net.  I hold this hand as tight, and as long as I can bear to stand.  

And then I hear this little voice inside my head say, “I want a bigger life, therefore I will be the bigger person.” 

So, I let go.

Because letting go isn’t about giving up.  It’s about growing up, and its about damn time I do so.