There's no written law that says you have to stay in any relationship you don't want to be in.
It's probably neither of your faults; you've just grown so much as people and those people don't fit well together anymore.
Even though you love them and it's time to(more) let them go, there is no written law that says you have to leave.
But the fact of the matter is, once it's gone-
you miss it.(less)
It's taken me a while to get used to living without you. The clothes only rarely get washed and the cat was never quite the same. I tell everyone that you're chronically ill, that you travel frequently for your job, anything to keep from having to admit the truth.(more) To be honest, I don't care if they can see through my lies anymore.
I left the bedroom just the way you did the day you left. Don't worry, I keep it clean, but everything is exactly where you left it: your box of pictures, the blue dress hung from the open closet door, the curtains drawn to invite in the sunlight. I couldn't sleep in there afterwards, so instead I kept it still and silent like a photograph.
I know you'll come home again, once you've gotten this craziness out of your system. You'll remember how happy you were when Shaleigh was born. You'll think of the good times we had and you'll regret leaving. She's gotten very big, you know. She has a kind soul and an artist's eye; she looks more and more like you every day. I tell her all I can about you, but it's just not the same without you here. She denies every good word and clings to the bad. Even though she was so young, I don't think she ever recovered after you left the two of us.
One day you'll come back to me, Cristen. Until then I'll wait. Even if I'm old and gray and sputtering madness; even if you're angry and a completely different woman from the one I know. I'll always be here for you. I'll always love you.(less)
Reynard bent his arm behind him to scratch the back of his neck; his face a grimace.
"Your hide itchin ye?" Awdrin's voice was tinged, almost imperceptibly, with concern.
(more) "How did you know?" He scratched vigorously for a second or two, then let his hand fall back to his side, but the slight twitch in his eye betrayed the continuing irritation.
"It's always that knob at the base of your neck. Ye get a screwed up look on your face and then go at it like a mangy hound."
"Well, it grates on me like a bastard."
"It seems tae be bothering ye more often than it used to."
"I've been thinking about it more often," Reynard said, absentmindedly lifting his hand to the offending patch of skin. "Every time I think of it, I feel it, just there. Like hairs on the back of my neck."
"You know, if Shannon ends up having a chat with The Lady, it'll be in that tower of hers. That's where it's kept, isn't it?"
Reynard's posture stiffened, and his voice sounded strained. "I can't afford to rest my hopes on the shoulders of a hapless mortal."
"Aye, but it's the best chance you'll get for a long while; unless you'd like to have another go of getting it yourself."
Reynard winced, putting a hand to his left ear. He could still feel the strange duality; a man's ear against his head, and miles away, in a chest, in a room, in a castle, a fox's hide with the left ear torn in half. His punishment for the last, and only time, he'd tried to steal his hide back from the The Lady Queen of the Hawthorn Court. "Point taken"(less)
The man named Eugene had lived his life normally and happily, as any man should. He had a wife, and a son, and a mother and a father and the monotony of totality was lost on him, but he missed it. Throughout his life, he had striven toward some(more) form of uniqueness, some way to create a legacy. It was the year Twenty-Thirty-Four, and Eugene had missed his chance.
Pale grey flesh was his moniker now, wrinkles adorning it as a marker of age. He was tired, he was old, and that was the amount he knew. His son was above him, crying softly to himself. His wife as at his right, sitting in a chair discussing the nuances of something in relation to alzheimer's. Throughout his life, Eugene had tried to make a difference, he had tried to be something special. But he missed it.
As nothingness or whatever lay beyond the event horizon began to greet the man, he wept. Not for death, not for the loss of family or money or earthliness: but he knew in that moment, that in all of it, all of the days all of the kisses all of the nights staying up thinking. He wondered how wide, how deep, how prolonged whatever beyond was. He tried to think of it, and he tried to conceive of it..
It would never have worked anyway. You were too different, right? You both wanted different things and there was too much history there for either of you to start again.
It probably wasn't love this time anyway, was it? Sure, you like her - who wouldn't? Maybe she's not(more) to everyone's tastes, but a girl like that draws everyone in from the first word.
But that's aside the point. It's the memories of love that are haunting you like a ghost... but you're clinging to them. How do you define yourself without her when that relationship, that pain, was how you defined yourself for the years that made you who your are now? By your acts? What if the only thing you want to do is burn it all down?
You forgot how bad the pain was when you stopped talking, forgot what the good times were really like. You thought everything could be different when you found her again because she makes you stupid... and you like it.
When she chose him it shattered you.
By the time you'd glued yourself back together, the darkness had already gotten in through the cracks.
The pain isn't so bad now - but you miss it. They sing about it some times in the music you listen to. Most of the time they scream it.
Now you know you're just one step closer to numb and every time you get there you stare long enough into the abyss to leave another part of yourself there.
I winked back at me once. I laughed and put down the knife and went to bed.
Maybe we can be happy again when we shut our eyes.(less)
The road, alone. It's an uncomfortable life: walking, riding, stowing away. Sleeping in the open, or under the trees, or huddled around the fire. But you miss it.
An urchin's journey. It's a hard life: walking, running, fleeing. Sleeping in haylofts, or under hedgerows, or on the street.(more) Stealing, begging, going without. Aching, grieving, crying. But you miss it.
A fugitive's flight. It's a fearful life: hiding, fleeing, fighting. Sleeping in snatches, or in chains, or not at all. Stealing, threatening, hurting. Hurting, bleeding, screaming. But you miss it.
How, when you're safe, full, and warm? Living, learning, growing? How can you miss it?