He Didn’t Look at Me

The white noise of his silence presses against my ears until I can hear my own blood moving. 

It feels louder than shouting.  

His face is still. Not angry. Not gentle. Just emptied of me. 

My face is wet. My nose aches. My throat feels scraped raw from holding everything in. 

We sit in his car, the lake in front of us. It’s dark.  

His left leg is folded up against the steering wheel. He looks comfortable. 

I fold myself inward and still feel exposed. 

My forehead is pressed against my knees; the fabric of my jeans damp from my tears. 

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says. 

The words fall between us and don’t break. But I do.  

I lift my head. The inside of my chest feels like it's trying to open and can't; catching on something immovable. My mouth moves, but nothing comes out other than the sound of saliva stuck to the roof of my mouth. I swallow and taste salt.  

He sighs. He rubs his face with sweaty palms, a wall between him and his indifference.  

He hasn’t explained. He hasn’t said my name. Already a stranger. 

His breath stays calm. Mine forgets how. 

He stares forward; at the lake, at his steering wheel, at his phone screen lighting up and dimming again with the life that exists for him beyond this moment with me.  

He looks everywhere, but he doesn’t look at me. 

I catch his reflection in the dark window and feel something hollow behind my ribs.  

This is it for him. I can see it in the way his jaw is tight, in the way his fingers keep flexing around the steering wheel. He is already somewhere else. 

“I’ll take you home,” he says. 

He waits for me to respond. 

I don’t.  

My body feels too heavy to move. If I stay still, maybe the moment won’t change. Maybe he won’t put the car in reverse. 

The engine turns over anyway.  

The car rolls backward. The water slips out of view 

My gaze lingers on his hands as he drives. They look normal. Calm. Like they aren't letting go of anything at all.  

I want to touch them. 

I don’t. 

The road hums beneath the tyres. Streetlights pass over us. The silence keeps pressing in. I keep thinking if I just find the right words, something might change. But my throat feels locked, like the truth is too big to fit through it. 

He pulls up outside of my house. Neither of us move. 

He exhales. A long, tired sound. He still doesn’t look at me.  

“You’ll be okay,” he says. 

As if he has any idea. As if he’s lived this moment himself. 

I nod, because that’s all I can bring myself to do. My chest aches in a way that feels permanent.  

I open the door. Cold air rushes in. Everything I didn’t say leaves with me. 

When I close it, I know it won’t be opened again.  

The car pulls away. He’s leaving.  

And I am still here.