Lying on my side in my boyfriend's bed, eight-thirty-four on a Sunday morning. I am thirty-three years old. My hands under the pillow, his wrapped around my waist. Warm: enclosed. I think, I have been here before. I think, I am going to break your heart.
I am in my room listening to the air conditioner on high. I am not sure if I am crying because I am sad to lose him, or sad to hurt him, or if I am just sad because I saw a sad movie this afternoon. I cried in the theater, but I wasn't sure why I was crying then, either.
I told myself that it didn't matter if I thought I would leave him, someday. If I knew it wouldn't last. I told myself to not go borrowing future troubles because maybe they wouldn't come true. I still think I was right. They might not have come true.
And I still want him, just not in the right ways or for the right reasons. Not the way he wants me. He thinks he's found what he's looking for. But he's wrong. Because staying means lying.
And leaving means hurting.