Not Anymore

Lying in the bathtub at 12:30 in the morning, eyes closed against the dark.  I kept thinking, why aren't I crying?  I should be crying.  He deserves that much, at least.

...

I said, My feelings are changing.  I can't stay.  I said, I'm not your girlfriend.  Not anymore.

He crumpled.  Silent.  And when I didn't know what to do and said I should go, his hands flopped sadly up and down.  No.

He is good, and kind, and thoughtful, and curious.  He's like a heating pad for my heart; everything in me unclenches when I hold him.  And he cares about me so goddamn much. 

I remember lying with him and trying and discarding all my words to find something to say that wasn't love.  I couldn't say love, but care and want and like all fell so short, too quiet and timid to express the noise in my chest.  But that word, the word that isn't love, it's gone.  I don't not-love him anymore.

I said, I don't know why.  I said, I can't explain.

I said, It's over.  I'm leaving.

...

Except it's not over, not exactly, not yet, because he asked to see me tonight.  Because he was so tired last night.  Because it was so sudden. 

I said, I can come over tonight.  Let me know when you're home.