The Rest of Your Days

So this is how it ends. Three years five months six days later, this is what it all comes down to: your space heater. The one you left in my care when you skipped town four months ago. How was I supposed to know you’d come back?

That day you asked me where we were headed. It was a serious moment and I wasn’t prepared. I was so busy living in the present, I hadn’t given a thought to the future. You weren’t happy with that answer. I hope you realize it was unfair cornering me the way you did. You know I’m not as good with words as you are.

In the months of your absence, I contemplated letting you go like it could be accomplished through sheer will. I didn’t know how to get over you so I buried you. I told myself I didn’t need you. Not your smile, your kiss, or your awful jokes. I can live without you, your voice, your laughter, the way you make every shitty little thing seem okay.

It’s true. I can live without all of it. But I would really prefer not to.

I didn’t want to promise you anything I couldn’t deliver. After all, forever is a very long time. But it occurred to me: the fluidity of time. How the days lived without you felt interminable but the years we spent together passed by in the blink of an eye. I’ve already missed four months of us, I don’t want to miss any more.

And now you’re here. Asking me for the space heater, the ten-dollar primitive space heater we bought from Target. Did you really come back for this?

Just stay. Stay with me. I will make you happy for the rest of your days. The space heater and you, I’m keeping both.

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