Jason looks at me with sadness in his eyes. We cannot change our past. While he is sad, I am deeply hurt. His long dark hair has turned to curls because of the Texas Gulf Coast humidity. How I have loved his curls. My right hand instinctively reaches out to touch his hair. I pull it back and tuck it under the table.

I can hear my own heart beat in my ears. In one night, or so it seems Jason wants to be friends. Friends? How does that work? I don’t want it to work. I want what we had…what I thought we had. Denial is addictive. Whenever that thing that wiggles in my gut would say, You need to pay attention to this, I pretended not to hear. It is easy not to hear…but then when the thing I avoided began to shout at me from across the barrier of my skin, into the depths of my ears and my heart, I had to listen and I didn’t want to.

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He stretches his hand across the kitchen table and covers my left hand. His long fingers begin to weave through mine. I start to jerk my hand away, but I stop myself. This may be the last time he attempts to hold my hand. It may be the last time he touches me. I leave my left hand where it is. I feel the familiar pressure of fingers and I feel like I am about to die. It is one thing to be the person leaving by choice, and another thing entirely to be the one being left. I don’t want him to go…yet I have to. He removes his hand. The warmth of it lingers and then dissipates. He stands. I watch him go to the front door of my apartment. He opens the door. It closes and I am alone.