It is 3:17 a.m. again. The faint click of the bathroom door, the sensuous metallic whisper of a drawer gliding open, then the zipper. Six times. Always six. I never learn what goes into the bag or why the zipper must be worked six times. I lie at the edge of the bed pretending to be asleep until she returns.
- Last night, the night before last, this same week last year—always the same sounds.
- She packs; I hate the line of her back.
Everything Her Fingers Touch Is Ready to Leave
She loves order. Creams on the vanity are arranged by color, by scent, by the sequence in which they will accompany her departure. Like an animal preparing for hibernation, yet aggressive.
“Today two lip balms, one bar of soap, and…”
I hear her murmuring, as if to someone who is not me. Every object her hand grazes carries the vow of farewell.
- The red sweater—last year’s Christmas gift—now moth-eaten, still she folds it.
- The black suit I once said I was too old to wear. She ironed it and smiled: “You wouldn’t suit anywhere anyway.”
Why don’t I stop her?
Or rather, why don’t I want to stop her?
847 Days with One Pair of Leather Bags
We first began to share the bed in April 2022, the day she said, “Sometimes one needs to sleep alone.” Since then a small triangular table has stood beside the bed. On it rests one pair of leather bags.
Day 847—the bags neither open nor close.
- Day one: a pair of socks.
- Day three: a necklace.
- Day thirty: the entire contents of her wallet.
Each day I check: What has disappeared today? Nothing vanishes; it has merely moved—under the bed, inside a drawer, onto her body.
Practising a Traceless Good-bye
Last week, as she stepped out of the shower, I spotted a single hair on the bathroom floor. Different length. Hers brushes the shoulders; this one is much shorter, shorter even than mine.
“That—” I began.
She snatched it up before I could finish.
“Oh, my sister dropped by today.”
She has no sister. I know. I do not ask, because I realize her lies are what keep her here.
I Love Her Preparation to Leave
Every night I wait for her ritual of departure. As she folds, tucks, files, I fall more deeply in love.
- Or rather, obsession.
- Or rather, dependency.
The reason she rehearses leaving is the very reason she doesn’t. She wants to go; I want her not to. We call this infinite loop marriage.
The Simple Reason We Share a Bed
She lies on the right; I lie on the left. Between us: 47 centimeters of space. Empty, yet containing everything.
- Her future.
- My past.
- Our present.
I feign sleep each night to guard those 47 centimeters—so she cannot cross them, so she cannot cross over them.
Why Neither of Us Leaves
Psychologists speak of fear.
- Fear of leaving.
- Fear of staying.
- Fear of the void between.
But I know: it is not fear, it is desire.
She is held back by the desire to leave. I am held back by the desire to keep her.
Our desires are engineered to kill each other, yet we remain alive. So each night we repeat the same liturgy: she packs, I watch the back of her head.
It is 3:44 a.m. She settles quietly beside me. I pretend to sleep. Her breath reaches my ear—slow, deep, but anxious. I lay a hand on her brow; she does not open her eyes. I whisper:
“You’re not leaving tonight either?”
She does not answer. We call the weight of this question and its silence love.
But if it were you, what would you do?
How do you stop someone who is ready to leave?
No—how do you let them go?
It is 3:45 a.m. She pretends to sleep; I pretend to stay awake. The 47 centimeters between us remain empty. And that emptiness is the only place where we can be together forever.