Baby Steps
Hey guys, here's a story for the night. Try not to feel sad. Do tell me what you think.
You tell yourself walking away is a gradual process. You begin by tiptoeing out of his space when you don't reply that text immediately, despite having your phone when the notification pops up.
It's lunch break and you have ample time; you're not hungry and there's no paperwork, but you don't tap answer when he buzzes. You tell yourself unloving him is a wall you want high, hence the need for solid foundation. You flirt with colleagues, return the boss's compliments with shy eye flutters, and wish work days lasted forever.
You return home afterwards to his arms, warm as you have always known, away from the icy feel of the world outside your flat, and those arms torch your heart down like fire left unattended would a bush of dry bamboo. You can't prevent how painfully air knots in your throat.
Weekends, like this, used to be about trips as a couple, exotic meals, and a zillion things that cameras couldn't capture. You talked about flowers, colours, flavours, and all bright things which existed to pleasure your senses. You returned home tired each time eager to cuddle, fall asleep, and carry over some of that goodness to work the new week.
Now, you look in his eyes and there's an unending tunnel, dark, unwelcoming, contending something you can't determine, something he's adept at concealing. You feel the weakness in your knees.
"Had a good day huh?" He asks. You're dying to say how much you missed him and lie about why you didn't reply his texts; instead you say, "Can we travel separately tomorrow?"
...Baby steps
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