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You should go; run far away; never look back, but you can’t seem to will yourself out the door.
So you’ll wait.
You throw yourself onto his bed and bundle up in his covers. They smell like him, like home. You breathe deeply, committing the smell of home to memory. You’re going to miss this run-down, old-pizza-smelling apartment building, you’re going to miss the woman next-door who smells like cookies and vodka. You’re even going to miss the way everything gets quiet, except the ceiling. It groans and moans and used to drive you nuts, now it makes your heart clench.
Maybe he’ll give you a chance. Maybe. You’re still worthy of his love.
Revision: You’re still worthy of love.
You throw the covers to the floor. The world outside of your- his apartment calls for you, sings to you. You should go; run far away; never look back. You should.
You walk into the bathroom, turn the water on scalding hot, and scrub your face until it burns. You pity your reflection, that slumped over, tired looking thing with bloodshot, puffy eyes. You’d been crying; you hadn’t noticed.
The door opens and closes. His footsteps echo in the hallway. Warm, heavy tears drip from your chin into the sink. Your face is magma hot, snot runs from your nose into your mouth. You grip the porcelain, and place your forehead against the cold mirror. You breathe deeply, gathering yourself and wipe the snot and tears from your face.
The light in his room comes on; the light in the bathroom goes off. You should go; run far away; never look back.
You walk back into the bedroom and sit on his bed, pulling the covers over your head and shoulders like a shield. They smell so rightly of him.
He sits at his desk, twisting in his swivel chair. His eyes are red and puffy; he’s been crying too. You did this. You lied. He looks away from you, at the posters on his wall, at the action figures on his shelf: all of them his superheros. He’s looking at anything and everything but you.
Your heart rams against your chest. You’re not like them, not a hero. But, you can love. You do love. You love him with everything you have within you, with your soul, your heart, your body, everything.
You ache to touch him, to wrap him up in your arms and kiss away his tears, to bring him comfort. But you can’t, so you sit and wait,
And wait,
And wait.
And you’ll wait forever.
You bring your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them. Maybe he still loves you. Maybe. A droplet of hope contaminates your despair. Hope, you find, hurts so much more than what you felt before. It sits heavy on your chest, crushing you flat with what if’s and maybe’s and maybe not. What if he still wants you. Maybe he already knew; maybe not.
Maybe you shouldn’t have lied in the first place.
He grabs a picture off the desk: one of the both of you. You can’t remember when it was taken, maybe after your first year together, maybe after your second, but you remember he told you he loved you for the first time right before it was taken.
He admires the photo momentarily, and something akin to nostalgia fills his eyes. A tear rolls down his cheek and onto the frame, then he tosses the photo back onto the desk like it doesn’t matter and cards through his hair. It teeters on the edge of the desk for a minute, then slams against the floor and shatters.
He cuts through the silence like a shard of glass. “Me or Villainy.” Your heart seizes up, your throat clamps down on your voice. Tears race from your eyes into your lap and onto his blanket. Your stomach violently erupts. You’re going to vomit or scream.
You want to scream, and throw something, and to be able to breathe and process your thoughts rationally and stop them from getting so dark. But you can’t even gather yourself into something whole. So you sit there and cry, and gasp for breath between each painful, too big for your throat, sob that claws its way out of you.
It isn’t that easy, it was never that easy, it will never be that easy. If you could drop everything for him you would. But you’ve got goals, people that you have to destroy, people that want to put their grimy, blood-spattered hands all over you city. You can’t be a hero and do the things you need to do. You couldn’t corrupt the hero namesake like that.
You lay in silence, your crying finally subsided. You wipe your snot and tears away with your sleeve: His shirt. You’re boyfriend is sitting only two big steps away from you, yet you couldn’t be farther away from him. With each moment passed you’re world slips away from you and into nothingness. You pull the shirt over your head and grab something of yours from the drawers.
He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat, something broken. He’s crying again, too.
You gather some things: the little knick-knacks you’d left lying around to make it look like you hadn’t packed all your things away already and photo in the shattered frame. Your bag is by the door. He follows you there and watches you pack everything away.
You want him to do anything. Scream. Throw things. Berate you. Beg you to stay. But he just stands there. You let go of the bag, let your things fall to the floor, and go to him. Wrapping your arms around him and burying your face into his shoulder. He goes stiff, your affection isn’t returned.
This is good-bye.
You open the door, but can’t bring yourself to walk out. You glance over your shoulder. He’s still there, watching you.
“I’m sorry,” You say, “I’m so sorry.”
“I still...” Your throat clamps down on your voice again. “I love you” You choke out.
He pulls your anniversary photo from the wall and tosses it to you. It skids to a stop at your feet. Your own smile mocks you, makes you long for the past. You pick it up and pack it away.
“You should leave” He says and walks over to you. He pushes you out and shuts the door behind you.
You should go; run far away; never look back, but you can’t seem to will yourself away from the door.