I reached into the dusty old junk drawer and, mixed in with mini highlighters, little-used keychains, and an uncanny number of binder clips, I found all these old movie tickets Katsumi had saved. He’s one of those people that save movie tickets. And I couldn’t bring myself to look at them and I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away.
So many movies.
We were together eight years. That’s kind of a long time, I feel like. And who was to know that this was how it would work out. I remember when we first met, when he would come into the coffeeshop and order his quad-soy-caramel latte then hang around until closing. I remember our first date. I remember our first fight. We used to sleep in his parents’ basement, before we had a place of our own, until one night the place was overrun by crickets. That’s when I decided it was time to move out of my parents’ house.
And now here I am, back at my parents’ house again.
I miss these things, sometimes, how it was before the madness. Sunday afternoon trips to Whole Foods, games of Yahtzee on the patio, 3-martini brunches at the B-side and matinees at Kendall Square. Baby panda documentaries when I felt sad. But even then the foundation was rocky. Even then the flood was waiting to burst.
Sometimes I feel like we should have worked harder, and sometimes I feel like it’s all my fault. I was the one that went crazy, I was the one who was so unreasonable. Impossible to live with. A beast. You wouldn’t have known it, not from the outside, but the person I became bore no resemblance to the person he fell in love with. Christ, the person I became bore no resemblance to anyone I’d ever want to be.
Sometimes the fact that I’m so much better now makes me think, if we’d just held on, we could have been ok. But sometimes I think it was our separating that allowed me to heal.
And I wonder if he’s happy and I hope every day that he is.
I hope he’s happier without me.
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