The last time

33: Her

You know that moment in every love story where the hero and the heroine put all of the messiness of the world aside? That part that ends in that big amazing kiss that everyone reading or watching has been on the edge of their seat waiting for? This is not that moment. Twenty eight days after he left forever, I rolled up his pjs pants, put them in my purse, and wrote him a note
        "I wrote you a letter. I wrote you a few letters, three songs, and twenty some poems. A lot happened in a month though. A lot changed. I'm leaving these here for the next girl to smile at you in. They aren't mine to keep anymore. You aren't actually perfect, but you're more good than bad and that's as much as anyone can ask for. I wish you only beautiful things and have nothing but love for you.
Thank you,
                For stopping by.

A fun secret is that I actually left a second letter. At the bottom of my note I wrote, "if you thought I'd have more to say, I do. There's a letter at the bottom of the bag. Whether you read it or not is up to you."
In that letter was a story about my divorced grandparents and an offer to call me, if he wanted to take a chance.
That's it. I left the bag on his car while he was at work. I did stay to see him open it. Part of me wishes I hadn't. I caught a glimpse of him wiping down tables before he walked out, and I think part of me thought I needed to see that he got it. I watched him use his phone flashlight to read my note. He looked around. Seeing if I was still nearby, I guess. He didn't see me in the car just thirty feet away though. We didn't meet eyes through the window and fall madly in love all over again. He threw the bag in his car, got in, and drove off. His car went right by the one I was in. He didn't notice me at all. Most likely for the best. I dropped off the last piece of him that wasn't mine to keep and I left. No fight. No talk. Just a clean and empty goodbye. Endings are not always what we hope they will be. Every story has a beginning a middle and an end, though not necessarily in that order. In this case, however, things fell rather neatly in line. First kiss. Big mess. Last glimpse of the first man I ever truly believed I would marry.

Every time I think I'm going to write a happy ending to this story I come closer to the understanding that one just isn't in the cards. I suppose eventually the boy whose pictures I can't seem to throw away will be a distant memory and I'll be wearing someone else's pjs to bed. Maybe the only way to give him a happy ending like I promised is to give him an ending that doesn't have me in it.