There were no arguments about stuff. It went without saying that he would take only what belonged to him. He offered to leave me his expensive speakers because the sound system, he said, was perfect as is. He remained gracious, kind and generous. He paid for the next month's rent in full, bought a ton of food for our - no, my - cats and cleaned the kitchen.
I thought I was lucky. I got to keep the apartment, live there rent-free for a month. I was thankful to have avoided the ugly fights that some couples have as they attempt to divide their unity in two.
I thought I was lucky until I returned home after he moved out. As I walked up the block, I had a sinking feeling, a realization. By the time I got to the door, I could not breath. And as I entered the apartment, I knew that, without question, I was not the lucky one.
The apartment was devoid of his things but full of his memory. Everywhere I looked, there he was. I sunk into a chair at the kitchen table and stared at the space across from me where he used to sit. I pictured him eating meals I'd cooked, laughing, listening to music. I opened a closet and there was an empty shelf where his clothing once was. I could see his pants, neatly folded, and how he looked when he wore them. I glanced over at the bed, now with only one pillow, and I willed myself not to think of that bed any further. I walked around the living room and gazed at furniture that he built, saw the couch where we cuddled and where we broke up. His desk, now mine, sat empty. We shared everything and I felt ownership of nothing.
I could not rest my eyes anywhere without feeling immense, unyielding pain. My instinct was to flee, to leave and never return. But I have nowhere else to go. So I closed my eyes, amongst the things and memories of things, and I cried.
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