another life

the lives we weren’t meant to lead

Author’s Note: The topic for next week’s writing group is “Letters to Our Ex-Lovers.” Mine took a turn, I realized - when I decided to answer the prompt: What would your ideal morning with them look like?

As I started to write, I realized that I was faced with reality, not fantasy. The reality of being with someone who I could never trust. And how that would slowly start to effect every single friendship and relationship in my life. But, most importantly - it’s the relationship to yourself and your relationship to your art that is in question.

This letter, or this scene, gives closure and clarity. There’s hints of longing, of course. Longing for the past, and longing for what could have been. And, there’s hints of love - so much love. Of self realizations, too.

It’s never easy to admit these truths to yourself. But what’s even harder, is living in a reality in which you know you don’t deserve.

-

I watch the reflection of the sun as it rises over my white duvet one April morning. 

I left the window open last night. I’ve been waking up every few hours with the noise of sirens, the sound of couples coming home from a night out, footsteps, keys turning in locks, and now, the birds chirping. 

Here is his routine: I hear him turn the lock, and I don’t hear him until I feel him next to me. 

6 AM. I glance at my phone. 

He walks into the room, as silent as he can be. He’s always careful not to wake me. But I don’t sleep anymore. I’ve somehow managed to learn how to live on disrupted sleep and with the pit in my stomach. Nerves, paranoia, anxiety. Codewords for key messages. 

But I open my arms anyway and wrap them around his neck. 

He kisses me on the forehead. “Hi, baby.” 

“Hi.” I will argue with myself in my mind. I list out all of the good reasons for pointing out that it is 6 AM. There are none. 

He unbuttons his shirt and crawls into bed.

“How was work?” I’ll ask instead.

“The same.” He yawns and wraps his arms around me. I’m facing away from him and towards the window. He pulls me in closer, and I let myself sink into him. I close my eyes.

The birds are still chirping, but I don’t want to close the window. 

“How was your night?” He murmurs into the back of my head. He moves my hair out of his face and starts to laugh. 

“So much hair, Emily. There’s always so much hair.” 

But there are moments of intimacy like this, where it just feels right. It feels right to call him mine. And I remember why I waited so long for him in the first place. 

“Good. I saw a few friends. We had wine. I came home and tried to write.”

“Which friends?”

I name two girlfriends. 

“Oh. And they’re good?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Just asking.”

My friends, they’re always a sore spot between us. I can blame it on many things - the age difference, for one. It’s hard for girls in their late twenties / early thirties to relate to a man in his fifties. Then, it’s always the way we got together.

How you get them is how you lose them. 

So, I’ve learned to keep these two lives separate. I avoid answering questions about him, because I already know that they have formed their own narrative in their heads. When they ask how everything is, I will respond with “Good”. “The Same.” Answers that you cannot ask more questions to. And I am too exhausted to argue, plead, and fight against my own story. 

I turn around and face him. 

“Are you going to ask me about my writing?”

“I already know that’s good.” He smiles and closes his eyes. “I don’t need to ask you.” 

“I haven’t been able to write. It’s been weeks.”

“Emily. Of course you can write. You’re always writing. Can we not -”

“It’s 6 AM.”

He lets go of me, and turns on his back to face the ceiling. “Emily. Come on. You. Out of all people, know how busy it gets.”

Out of all people. As if he’s saying: you know who I am. You know how you met me. You know how you got me. You know how you’ll lose me.  

“Emily.” His tone changes. It’s a plea.

You’ve always wondered what older men actually offer younger women, besides extra sadness to take on. They always seem to be looking for something that they never want to put in the effort to find. 

I get out of bed right as I feel the tears starting to form. I throw my hair into a bun and walk into the kitchen. 

Crying used to be cathartic, didn’t it? When did it stop healing me? It used to give me some form of release. Now, tears are just a reminder of me carrying someone else’s sadness. 

I throw the remainder of the coffee grinds into the moka pot. 

“You don’t trust me.” I hear from the bedroom. 

I put the coffee on the stove. Those birds are still chirping, and both of us are still operating on no sleep. 

I don’t respond. I turn around to see him standing in the kitchen.

His tone changes again, and he comes closer. “Are these new?” He rubs the silk of my pajama set between his fingers. 

I shake my head. 

I love this set. “Sleeping in silk elevates your sleep routine” my best friend said to me once.

This was when I was writing, and this was when I was free.

When I’d wander the streets of Milan. The window shopping. The expensive bars. I’d have one drink, and save the rest of my money for something else. I was the girl on her own. And I always loved being her. There was always something freeing about it. The possibilities. It all belonged to you. It all belonged to me. 

And I got lonely, sure. But it was never something a call with a girlfriend or a good book couldn’t fix. And I’d fantasize about how one day I’d have my own apartment decorated. There’d be books, my books, and prints, all lined on top of an old fireplace. Milano glass. Candles. And I’d fantasize about who I’d share the space with. I was young and unsure about a lot of things. But I was grounded. Grounded in myself, and mostly, proud. 

It’s been sevreal weeks since I’ve last written. I don’t want to write, because writing always confronts me with the truth, and I’m too scared to read it. I’m too scared to hear it. How all I ever wanted, for so long, was this man. And now, I have him. He sleeps next to me every night. But the truth is this: I have never felt more alone in my life.

The steam rises from the pot.

I love him. I do. I love him, but I don’t trust him. But I don’t know who I’m more mad at: me, for loving someone I can’t trust. Or him. For being someone who I can’t trust. 

“You want one?”

He sighs. “Sure.” 

I take out two yellow cups. He opens the kitchen window and lights a cigarette. 

I hand him his coffee. There’s something both intimate and nostalgic about our routine. 

“Remember the first time you opened this window? And you asked me if I smoked?”

He nods. “You said no. Then you asked me if you should start.”

I smile. “Maybe I should have.” 

He laughs. “You know, that’s when I wanted to kiss you. But then you walked away and said: “I’m too paranoid about my skin.” 

He remembers these things. 

“Smoking ages you.” I nod to his forehead creases. 

It was everything we ever wanted. Those moments, those mornings together. 

But all we ever wanted was to be free, remember? 

I watch the way he leans out the window, cigarette in hand. The way he looks at something else. Longing to be somewhere, longing to be someone else. The morning light shows the creases, the bags, the greys. The life he’s lived. He’s tired, too. But there will always be something else for him to fixate on. The way his phone lights up. The cigarettes. The smell of alcohol. Anything. Anything else. He doesn’t belong to me. He never belonged to her. He doesn’t even belong to himself.

I wrap my arms around his waist. 

“But I’m here. Isn’t that enough?” He’ll tell me after each fight. 

Today, as he takes the last drag of his cigarette. He kisses my forehead, and he wipes away a tear. 

“Come on, Emy. Let’s go back to bed.”