She looks at me, her eyes equal parts longing and grief. It’s as if I am gone though I am right in front of her, just a ghost, an intangible thing she wants but cannot have. I ache to touch her, to close the valley between us, to scatter her doubts to the dust. But circumstance commands I be still, my tongue tied, imprisoned by boundaries I cannot cross.
“I should go,” she whispers, and yet she does not move. We stand like statues until the silence chokes us, the empty air full of almosts, questions lodged inside our throats. That’s when I realize it was always going to end this way, with half our hearts dangling on a string, one foot in while reality demands we take two steps back.
“That’s probably for the best,” I answer, but the words crack around sentiment that begs her to stay. She nods because she knows, and I feel my chest constrict like a noose has stolen the very air from my lungs. I’d be a liar to say it doesn’t hurt, the sides of her I’ll never see, the stories I’ll never hear, the secrets we’ll never share. Between us are inches that may as well be miles, no more or less out of reach than she’s always been. And yet, I am left wondering: if I haven’t lost anything, then why do I feel so empty inside?
Photography by Abigail Saturday