The sound of the early morning is deafening. I have been awake for hours, staring, watching shadows of memories dance across the ceiling like dimming fireflies in the dawn. Beside me he sleeps peacefully, his paced and even breathing roaring in my ears, fueling my growing disdain. How can he sleep? Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me?
The blame falls squarely on my shoulders, I know that. I should have been honest with him eight months ago. I should have told him I was terrified to move, terrified of what that would mean for my career, for our relationship. Instead I agreed earnestly, as I always do, wanting to please him. It’s become a terrible habit of mine over the last few years, this need to put everyone else above myself, and it rears it ugly head often at the most inopportune of times.
Like on a Tuesday morning, two hours before dawn. I am miserable here, and too cowardly to tell him. I’m still searching for a job and am incredibly homesick. It’s coming down on me now, like an unbearable weight that one cannot possibly shoulder themselves. Yet here I am, silently struggling for the thousandth time while he sleeps. He thinks I’m happy, while I’m putting Bailey’s in my coffee in an attempt to get through my day. I hate it here, and long for the smell that only rural farm country can produce. I miss being able to see the stars at night, to be lulled to sleep by the musical chirping of peepers. Most of all, though, I miss what our relationship used to be; who I used to be. I miss the innocence of a beginning love and the confidence of a girl who hasn’t been broken down by years of internally struggling through a relationship she knows isn’t right for her.
I want to tell him my secrets, to have him share the overwhelming reverberation of emotions constantly pounding in my head. Instead, the only sound I can muster is this: I still love you.