Sea Creatures.

 

Today, my wife left me.

For weeks, a heavy ache has lived in my chest, dragging my heart to the bottom of my worry until it has grown scarred and worn from the weight of grief. We were two sad people trying desperately to make each other happy, it used to be the easiest thing we did. It was why we thought we were made for each other. 

For a time, we managed to keep the darkness at bay, to hold one another above the tide. But no sea creature stays above water forever. We were always meant to be underwater.

The night before she left, we argued in the kitchen. It wasn’t about anything new—it never was. It was the same tangle of misheard words, the same exhaustion of two people who loved each other but no longer knew how to say it without wounding. She hadn’t eaten all day, and when she pushed her plate away and stormed into the room, I felt something split inside me. For the first time since our wedding, we slept in separate rooms. The silence that filled the hallway between us was louder than any storm. Perhaps it was a warning that I refused to hear.

When morning came, the sky broke open. The rain came down in torrents, pounding against the windows so fiercely that I thought the universe was angry at me, angry that I had let it happen.

I remember telling her, days before, that I was tired; that my soul was exhausted. What I meant was I missed you. my tongue ached for yours, my arms ached for the weight of you in them. But the storm inside me swallowed the words before I could give them to her.

I forgot why I needed her. Why it had to be her. I forgot the sound of her laughter when we first met, the way she tilted her head when she was pretending not to cry, the little notes she left tucked into my books because she knew I always lost my bookmarks. Somewhere between her sadness and mine, I let love become secondary to survival. And when the chaos consumed us, I made it all we were.

For that, I am sorry. But of what use are apologies now?

I found her letter on the nightstand. The handwriting was uneven, the ink blurred in places as though she had stopped, mid-sentence, and wept. Maybe even reconsidered. 

“My soulmate,” it began, “I thought it selfish to leave without writing to you. It’s our thing, after all…”

I could hear her voice in my head. I imagined her holding my face and whispering these words into my soul.

“I wish I could’ve stayed, but the weariness of my soul was heavier than my will to remain. We tried so hard to be different, healed. But the sadness was all we've ever known.”

I read every line repeatedly, praying that this wasn't real. Misery had been transformed into a suicide note, and every sentence was a knife digging deeper into my heart. 

Her words spun into a tornado in my head, and left deep wounds I don't think I'll ever recover from.

“we would’ve been perfect if we were happy. I wanted that so badly—for you, for me, for us. But I am sorry that my sadness was all I had to offer you. I hope you feel some burden has lifted from your shoulders, because I know how heavy I was to carry. I finally found the courage to leave, though it is the cruelest kind of courage. Please forgive me.

I love you. I always will. But I should’ve never married you.”