I watched as a drop of rain slid down the window, merging with others as grey clouds loomed in the sky. Today was my birthday. He was out, somewhere. With his friends, I think. He didn't tell me until five minutes before he left. We were going to go for dinner, at that lovely Italian place where we had our first date. It didn't matter. I didn't remind him, I didn't stop him from leaving. It wasn't worth the argument.
Anger? No, that wasn't quite right. Regret, perhaps? No, not that either. I wasn't quite sure what it was. Frustration, maybe. Disappointment, definitely. Disappointment for what we could have been. The ink on my pen had dried as I sat there, lost in thought. I dipped it again, watching the deep red coat the metal nib. What do I sign it with? Love? Ex-love? Could-have-been-love? In-another-universe-love?
I went with my name.
Another day. Another evening spent alone with my thoughts. The clock I had given him for our anniversary ticked away, gathering dust over our bed. I listened to the minutes and hours passing. He returned sometime in the night, I think. I don't remember; I had fallen asleep.
I can't believe I had been so naive. All his promises. All his empty, unkept promises. I promise I'll be there for you. I promise I'll treat you like you deserve to be treated. Yet here I am, at ten fifteen on a Sunday morning, making myself instant coffee and toast. The bed beside me had been empty when I woke up. Again.
I can't remember the last time we spoke. Properly spoke, I mean. He asks me to take the bin out, to pass him the salt, you know. But properly. We used to dream about our future together, the children we'd have. A tiny tabby named Luna. Two girls, one boy. We'd play with them on our bed, let them build dens out of bedsheets and sofa cushions.
I folded the letter, the sharp crease just above my deep red name. I carried it into our bedroom, the silence punctuated only by the oppressive ticking of the clock he never looked at. There was no single fault, no one argument to blame. But looking at the letter lying there, I knew with absolute certainty that it had all began and ended with the simplest of failures. It had all been decided that morning, ever since he made my coffee too hot.