Paper Trails 2 | Draft

36.

"Loving me will not be easy. It will be war. You will hold the gun and I will hand you the bullets. So breathe, and embrace the beauty of the massacre that lies ahead."
- r.m. drake

*****

I didn't fight. I didn't beg. I didn't apologize or tell him I didn't mean it. I didn't ask for a second chance, I didn't ask to stay. I didn't say anything. I shrugged, stood up, and went upstairs to pack.

He said I'd be going back to New York, so that's what I'll do.

But I wanted to fight. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that I'd forgiven him for a lot of shit, so he needed get over his hurt feelings and talk. I wanted him to want me to stay. To fight for me to stay.

It felt final. This.

He wasn't coming back with me, he said so himself.

He'd be gone weeks, and in that time he may give up. Or I may give up.

God knows I want to sometimes.

But he said it. He said he loved me. Didn't that count for something?

The drive to the airport was a silent one. I'd said goodbye to Leo—short and brief because I didn't feel like talking for too long—and clambered out the house. He didn't help me with my bags. He simply sat behind the wheel and waited.

I didn't complain.

I didn't speak.

The drive to the airport was silent. But my head was loud. In my head, I was screaming. Yelling. Telling him to stop the fucking car and fight with me, because that's what I wanted to do. I wanted to fight.

It was easier.

He didn't look at me. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, he smoked a cigarette, he drove and drove, but he didn't look at me. And he didn't speak.

This felt silly. The argument felt silly, because we weren't arguing over anything yet. How do we manage to fight before the actual fight comes to play?

He helped me this time, with taking the bags out. Silently, of course. We did all the regular procedures necessary and then finally sat down to wait the half hour. He wouldn't look at me. Wouldn't say anything.

He didn't want me to stay.

My eyes watered, but I blinked back the tears and took a deep breath to gather myself. I was good at this. Hiding. Smiling. Pretending. Not caring. I was good at this, but for some reason my hands were shaking and the tears were persistent. One fell and I quickly swiped at it before he could notice.

He saw anyway.

"Neila—"

"No."

Silence.

That was it. He didn't try again. I expected him to, I wanted him to, but he didn't.

It wasn't until I was on the plane that I let my tears fall. And then I dried my eyes, sucked it up, and went home.

To New York.