“Perhaps it’s just better if you don’t know.”
The words echoed in her ears, even though he’d said it almost four hours ago. Eight little words, each individually she had known since she was in elementary school. Words she’d used without even thinking about them more times than she ever could have counted. But in that order. Coming from his mouth. Who knew they could make her feel so much?
The first instinct was rage. The patronizing tone of that sentence. She was an adult, and she could decide for herself what she was and wasn’t ready to know. He had no say in the matter.
The second was sadness. The understanding that he wasn’t going to tell her—that he had done something or knew something that was about to shatter everything they had—and he didn’t even have the balls to own up to it. She was going to spend the rest of her life wondering what it was that ended this relationship—and that left her with an emptiness that was never quite going to get closure.
And of course, desperation. The desperate, pathetic desire to rewind time to only an hour ago, to before she saw the picture, to before she started doubting, to before those eight little words, to when she felt genuinely happy.
But then she knew that wouldn’t be any good either. The picture would still exist. The seams were already there, just waiting for the pressure to be applied. She’d been living a lie for goodness only knows how long. Even what she thought was happiness was fake.
So, last, she felt resignation. He wasn’t going to explain. She couldn’t make him without hurting herself any worst. So, this was it. Time to go.
“Perhaps you’re right.”