Page 74 of A Fighting Chance

Pain will do that to you—make you feel cold on a warm night.

I walk inside and up the stairs, grateful everyone is sleeping. I get to the top of the stairs and look between Gentry’s door and mine.

Right.

My stuff is in his room.

Should I still sleep in there?

No, that’s fucked.

Can’t.

I open his door gently, like he might be in there somehow. I look around in the dark and the room’s stillness is off-putting. So much has happened in here. I flip the light on and go to my suitcase, folding things inside, picking the clothes up from the floor that are near it. I walk to the nightstand and remove my charger, my personal stuff.

I try to remove all traces of me. Soon, it will be like I was never here at all.

Except that’s not how memories work. They remain in your skin. You can’t strip them away. Not with soap and water, distance, or even time. They scar up your insides, take root, refuse to leave.

I finish and look around the room. There’s nothing left of me here in this space. My luggage is by the door and I should just leave. I should go back to my old room and try on the aloneness waiting for me there—my old friend.

My hand is on the doorknob, but I can’t turn it. Not yet. I look at the fireplace, the bean bag chairs. My eyes study the folds in his unmade bed. The unfinished book on his nightstand. His closet door is half-open—and I can’t fight the urge. I walk to it quickly, opening it the rest of the way. I step inside and run my hands over the fabrics of his shirts. I can smell him in here, like a fresh cut fir tree for Christmas. I raise the sleeve of his one shirt up to me and inhale, understanding right then that the actions in romance and stalking are the same. Before I realize what I’m doing, I rip the shirt from its hanger and tuck it under my arm.

Then, I leave his room for the last time.

I walk into my room and it dawns on me that I haven’t been in here for a couple of weeks aside from earlier today, to get ready. My suitcase gently crashes to the floor, flopping over onto its overfilled belly and teetering. I sit on my bed, clutching Gentry’s shirt in my hands and willing myself not to cry.

Please don’t. Please don’t cry.

I smell his shirt again, soaking in the clean scent of him.

Don’t. Not yet. Don’t do it.

After kicking off my boots, I lie back on my bed. When I tuck a pillow beneath my head, I feel the rustling of paper.

I flip over onto my stomach and reach for the papers—two folded notes. On the outside of one, in Gentry’s writing, it says,“If you decide to stay”;on the outside of the other note, it says,“If you must go”. My lip is quivering again.

No. Not yet. Don’t cry.

I set aside the note for staying. I’m not meant to see that one. It’s not the choice I’ve made. I unfold the note marked for leaving and inhale a deep breath.

We all make choices in life.

Some are easy, some not so much.

I wanted to pretend this was an easy one,

that you could see it the way I did.

The worst thing about falling in love

with a temporary situation

is the inevitable shatter.

If you must go, know that you

take a piece of me with you.

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