They married.

There were boxes, lots of them. They were not children anymore, and yet it took them by surprise. One would’ve thought they had talked about it; after all, it was the most important moment of their lives, each having failed a couple of times already.

They never thought they were so many, and so heavy. They should’ve known better.

They pushed them, stacked them. The place looked pretty much like a warehouse. They’d thought it’d look more like a home, but they’d dragged along just too much during the years, each of them.

In the beginning, after they had finally moved in, they lost sight of really important items which were out of reach, a matter of apathy perhaps.

Momentarily, they also forgot about what they could not see. But the yearning came sooner than expected. Each of them began to miss, and a feeling of emptiness would soon take over. They knew the feeling; they also knew the consequences. Better to ignore it.

Some things were missing, on the one hand. But others were there, seeming uninvited (annoying things, uncomfortable things, ugly things). On the other hand, some boxes disappeared with no explanation. At some point, they began to argue. At some point neither of them could tell who had forgotten or lost more of their own boxes. Who or what had forced them to “choose” that life?

The moment came when they started to keep some of the boxes someplace else. Soon the house looked empty, but they would not complain about either of them taking too much space for themselves, as they did not dare to ask where the boxes had gone, for both have probably done the same and had learned to live with it. It was that kind of connivance, the perfect camouflage of a failed marriage.

The day would came when they would finally remember what was in the boxes they had forgotten, and it was probably not too late.