FINDING US (AGAIN)

Path that leads to US

Annika stared at the coffee table in the middle of the room, counting the tiny smears in the glass.

She tried to focus on her breaths - in, out, in, out - but her pulse sounded too loud in her ears. The thumb of her right hand rubbed over her left wrist, gently swiping back and forth in a futile, subconscious gesture of comfort. In her left hand, she gripped the piece of paper tighter before she held it in both. She stared at her messy scrawl, her eyes narrowing like she could will the ink off the page, send it spiralling in a cloud of black smoke so she didn't have to say the words.

His writing would be neat, she thought sourly. He would have expressed himself in succinct but even sentences, divulging just enough. The words he used would be complicated, flowery and sophisticated; there would be some she hadn't even heard of. He would have written them in his sleek, elegant cursive, putting to paper that quiet energy he always carried with him, and Annika's eyes flitted over to him to try and see.

It was pointless. He'd never let her see. He'd never share.

That was one of the reasons they were here in the first place.

"Annika?" the therapist's voice sounded too far away, like it was under water, and Annika blinked back to reality.

"Yes?"

"You were half-way through what you'd written."

"Oh right," she breathed, her eyes flitting back to the page. She tried to find her place, tried to remember what had made her lose it in the first place, and her gaze skimmed down the paper.

I love how hard Shivaay works. I don't love that it kept him away from us for so long, and all the nights I slept alone, but I appreciate the life he gave us.

I love the way he loves our children. How he's never shown the twins any kind of favouritism and how he always kisses them on the forehead before he goes to bed, even if they've already been asleep for hours. They love their Daddy with such an intensity it sometimes makes me jealous.

I love his family and how amazing they are, even if he sometimes forgets.

(I love the way he made love to me, how he always made sure I'd had at least two orgasms by the time he'd finished.) crossed out

I love all the parts he hates about himself.

"I love how hard Shivaay works..." she started, clearing her throat, but as she spoke, all that positivity, all that goodness, melted away, fading into the dark.

She saw the fights, the angry words hurled like weapons, words said in the heat of the moment—not really meant but painful nonetheless. She saw the nights where she cried herself to sleep, the sheets crisp and cold on his side of the bed. She saw the kind expression etched on his face twist into something cruel, a stranger with little left of the man she married.

For every good memory she had of Shivaay, Annika had two bad ones. She knew there were good things, good times—she'd written them down after-all—it was just harder to remember them.

"Annika?"

"I don't want to do this anymore," she blurted out, her eyes flying to the middle-aged woman in-front of her. She kept her gaze steady but she could feel the heat of Shivaay's eyes on her, could picture the look on his face, all dark with one brow arched.

"Annika, we agreed that if you want to keep this separation as smooth as possible, it's important for your children to feel a relaxed, positive atmosphere between you. More than that, it can be helpful in the darkest times to remember that Shivaay was once a person you loved very much."