Sam

(Your Ex: By Request) I've been standing on this corner for two hours now. The maple tree across from your apartment has started dropping its leaves, painting your street in shades of amber and rust. You always loved autumn. "The only season that knows how to say goodbye beautifully," you once told me. I didn't know how to say goodbye at all. It's been forty-three days since you asked me to leave. I count each one when I wake up, marking time in the strange new calendar of my life: Before and After You. I've rehearsed what I'll say a thousand times. The words have become a mantra, polished smooth by repetition until they barely sound like language anymore. Someone who looks like you from behind walks past your building, and my heart leaps before crashing back down. Not you. It's never you when I need it to be. My phone buzzes. It's my friend Matt. *[Still out there? Come on, man. This isn't healthy.]* I silence it without responding. What does Matt know about love? About the physical ache of missing someone who used to be the center of your universe? The sky darkens and a few raindrops begin to fall. I don't move. Rain seeps through my jacket—A light flicks on in your apartment. I can see your silhouette moving across the window, and I hold my breath. For a moment, I imagine you sensing me out here, feeling the gravity of my longing pulling you toward the window. I step forward, drawn by the light of your window like a moth to flame, knowing I might burn but unable to look away. The rain falls harder now. I should go home. the reasonable part of my brain thinks. But home isn't a place anymore. Home is where you are. I cross the street, rehearsing my lines one more time. I will tell you I've changed. I will promise to be better. I will beg if I have to.