When?

*to be clear; this is a creative piece, based on true stories, with a reflection.*

When did I feel it? 

The first time you made me a coffee. When we kissed for the first time in the spaceship train station. When you secretly stroked my back under my shirt as we stood at the bar. When you swung my friend's toddler up onto your shoulders. When you ordered us a takeaway as we finished our second cocktails. When I heard you sing for the first time. When we'd laugh about the movie we went to see on our first date. When I first heard you say 'what can I do to help you?' When you surprised me at work, brought me a mint tea, then patiently waited for me to close up - very conspicuously reading 'One Day' on a bench outside the shop. When you appeared in the doorway, after all that time. On any and all of our supermarket trips. When I saw you without a beanie hat on, and realised you were going bald. When you softly sang to me as we danced down a deserted street one night; me in my pyjamas, you in a suit. When I saw you naked for the first time, in pencil scribbles and shadings. When I came home from work to find you awaiting me, presenting a mug of decaf green tea with a dark chocolate digestive beside it - melting slightly where it touched the cup. When you couldn't wait to kiss me. When the bottle spun you. When I listened to your demo on my iPod at the bus stop, and realised it was about me. The hundredth time you made me a coffee, and still drew a heart on the lid. 

When did I have to laugh?  

When I met your mum, and she was stoned. When I found out you named your first born after the most basic Irish whiskey. When you'd start sending me disappearing messages late on a Friday night, and I'd check your live-in girlfriend's Instagram to find that yes, she had gone to her parents' for the weekend again. When you stopped kissing me so you could practice chords on your guitar. When you stopped ordering vegan food everywhere we went, which you'd done for months since we'd met to 'support' (impress) me. When I read your hideously inappropriate and unfunny wedding speech you'd proudly posted on Facebook. When your band played at my graduation ball, and you pretended to be Irish as you chatted with the crowd, between songs. When you nearly kissed me, finally, at a house party - then didn't, because your mate said I had a boyfriend. The night you were reportedly spotted in a local pub with another buzzcut-sporting babe. When you told me you'd wanted me, way back when... when, to be exact, I'd wanted you. When I found out that while I was having the time of my life singing with tens of thousands of Swifties at Wembley, you were back at our house, laughing down the phone and lying through your teeth. 

When did my heart break?

When you had to abandon your mediocre mocha, and go outside to cry. When I saw your proposal, in a tumblr post. When you told me about the guy with the motorbike. When you asked me quietly, as I cried on your doorstep, 'so... why are you still with me?', your breath making little wet clouds in the night air. When I asked if you still wanted to get married, and you replied 'ehh'. When you rolled over beside me and murmured into my mattress, 'are you horny too?' When I realised you didn't feel the same way about that night when it snowed. When you told me you didn't really miss me, in the week we were apart. When you told me you were walking home, at 10am - and you'd stayed at a friend's, who you awkwardly referred to as a 'they'. When I took you to hospital, and you didn't say a word to me for the whole drive. When I saw you had a pretty new girlfriend, just a couple of weeks after you told me - naked, in bed - that you weren't in the right place for a relationship. When I realised it just wasn't possible, in this lifetime. When a mutual friend told me you'd got married between lockdowns, then when I saw the indisputable proof... and then, when you denied it. When you kissed me, three times, before walking out. When I realised you'd disabled notifications on the doorbell camera, so I wouldn't see you'd already put a packed bag in your car. 

Some things I can pinpoint. Others, not so precisely. I tell my therapist that I'm an emotional person, but she says that surprises her, as I don't give much away in our sessions. I hold back tears, habitually. I swallow sobs and clear my throat of residual unhappy hiccups that are threatening to pop up and out and give me away. I sometimes wonder if seeing me surrender to my feelings, watching me crumple in my chair and cry, brings her relief or a strange triumph, even, because it's so hard to get me there. It never used to be this hard. I got a heart tattooed on the back of my left wrist to symbolise just how open and honest I am, but maybe now instead it represents an inky black lie. Or is it a hopeful heart, buried behind the wall I've constructed, built brick by brick every time I've been let down, hurt and even hidden? We'll see.  

G.