By Danielle Woodgate

The bed is cool, at first a wonderful surprise. I reach across the space, shifting my hand every few seconds to chase the refreshing chill hidden between the sheets, and then I remember. The bed should be full, a shared space of bodies and warmth. Normally I wake with the sheets twisted around my limbs, a pillow pressed against my back, your balmy humid breath brushing across my face. This morning the kiss of air I feel comes from the clockwise spin of the fan on high, devoid of any comfort.

My eyes remain closed against this new reality. I roll over, groping for the pillow you used. My fingers caress and pull it near my face. Nostrils flaring, I search for the remaining tendrils of your smell. Pungent, you refused to shower the other night after basketball with your friends. A hint of the curry you ate in bed; I punished you with my silence for this infraction.

Then just you. 

A smell I cannot name, yet it evokes every tender moment. 

The scent I pushed away last night.

“I can’t do this anymore,” you said. The slamming door a punctuation mark at the end of our relationship.

The pillow isn’t enough. 

It doesn’t pull me closer.

It won’t nuzzle my neck and tell me everything will be alright.

Downy feathers quickly losing any echo of you.

The cream satin pillowcase has warmed from my exhalations. Now I smell salty tears and morning breath reflected back at me. Soon the bed will have no impression of the person who once crowded its other side. 

But I will not forget. 

I’ll long to wake in a bed held by you again.

A lover encroaching on my space.

I force myself to get up. 

“A body at rest stays depressed,” my therapist says. 

The shower is icy.

 I have neither the patience nor the inclination to wait for it to reach a tepid temperature. It serves to wake me. My thoughts clearing as I start to comprehend the finality of the choices I made. 

Those words I flung like rocks, skipping across the surface of you until they finally sunk in your heart. The ripples spreading through our bond. 

I tossed a pebble to start, “It’s your fault I am so unhappy.” 

“I hate you.” Each stone growing larger.

“You have destroyed my life.” A boulder sinking immediately.

I thought we had an understanding. 

Didn’t you know the scathing words meant nothing?

It was stress speaking, not me. 

I blame my actions on an outside force. I’m not speaking these accusations; something wears my skin like a monster.

“I’m exhausted by your excuses,” you said last night.

“It isn’t me, it’s the depression speaking,” my hands fruitlessly holding onto your shirt while I push you away.

I am the creature in the bed we shared. 

You said things I wouldn’t want you to take back even if you could. 

“No one can love you if you don’t love yourself.” Your hands pulling clothes from our closet.

“You can’t rely on me for your happiness.” As you empty the medicine cabinet of your offerings.

“I cannot care for you at the cost of losing myself.” Your hand reaching for mine as I pull away first.

The truth of my life laid bare by the person I love most. 

I knew these things were inside of me; I never realized you could see them as clearly.

Forgoing my makeup, I peruse the sink for anything you left behind. 

A toothbrush. 

A fingerprint. 

A stray hair from shaving your beard. Covering the sink each morning, a reminder of our first argument, your imperfections.

Nothing, as though you never existed.

“There’s power in leaving, it’s not failing, it’s survival.” My therapist encouraged. As if she could see the things I hid even from myself. 

I dress without care for my appearance. Normally I perform my morning ritual knowing I’ll have a captive audience, a critic to express the issues with my execution. 

This morning I don’t trip on your shoes left in the middle of the hall, or reach for your damp towel over the couch, or stifle my steps in case you were out late with your friends.

The kitchen is cold. 

The coffee maker silent. 

I start to realize all the little things that are missing. 

The paper sitting on the table ready for my perusal.

A hot cup of creamer with a dash of coffee handed to my still sleepwalking body as I enter. 

You knew not to talk to me first thing in the morning. Yet you listened so well to my silence.

How did I not see this before? How did I not realize you heard what I never said? I blamed you for my melancholy, you weren’t making me better. 

Those moments of joy you gifted me, swept away so quickly with a harsh word or critique.

You lobed my insecurities back at me.

“I hope you find a way to be happy someday.” Your voice soft, an unspoken desire remaining.

My own words were filled with vitriol, why do yours sound like a dream?

You spoke as if you truly cared. 

As if you didn’t abandon me to my demons, alone in our bed. 

Only later will I realize the gift you left, of space.

*   *   *

Danielle Woodgate lives in Corcoran, Minnesota. She is a preschool teacher by day. You can find her on twitter at @woodgatewrites, her blogs daniellewoodgate.com and loudmouthmom.com, or in carline waiting to pick up her kids. She has previously published work with Factor Four Magazine, Maudlin House, and Tales from a Moonlit Path.