The Moments She Remembered

His Love I Held For Her: Part Two

“What if the ache isn't proof you loved him but proof you left before he did?”

The first month, I became an archivist of my own heartbreak.

Replaying the good parts on a loop. The trip to Cabo, the love notes in my coat pockets, the sound of his laughter as I fell asleep. I scrolled through the photos until my thumb went numb. I told myself, “I miss him. God, I miss him so much.”

My friend Paris would sit with me some nights, watching me cry, listening to the same four songs on repeat: I’d Rather Go Blind by Etta James, Un-Break My Heart by Toni Braxton, Be with You by Beyoncé, and Mine Again by Mariah Carey. Finally, she asked, gently, “Do you miss him, or do you not miss being within your own presence?” I stop cold for a second and pause the music. Because I don’t know what it is about us black people, but music seems to be the reason it’s hard for us to hear when someone says something we’re about to crash out for. “What you say?” I stood tall and tense. She repeated herself without hesitation. Vomit started to rise in my throat, but not fluid; words needed to release trapped venom. I stared for what seemed to be forever, while Paris continued. I had a bad habit of blocking out what I didn’t want to hear, but some small, stubborn part of me knew it: she was on to something. The ache didn’t only show up when I thought about Marcus specifically. It showed up in the empty apartment. It showed up on Sunday mornings. It showed up in silence, in stillness, in any moment I wasn’t being distracted by something loud enough to drown out my own sanity.

I’ve been lonely before, I realized — I just hadn’t sat with it, because he’d been sitting right next to me when it happened. I remembered evenings on the couch, technically together, scrolling on our separate phones, feeling like I was waiting for something to start. I had called that comfortable. The sad part is I was okay with our version of spending quality because it didn’t require me to sacrifice more of my own desires. “Paris, I understand what you’re getting at, but relationships haven’t been too good to you. So, being alone is like a best friend to you at this point.” Paris’s brows tense and lines deepen within her skin. I knew I fucked up. “Paris, I’m sorry that…”

Before I could finish, she was already out the door. Paris texted me later that night with only a statement: “Hurt people, hurt people.”