The problem is that everything feels so far away, sometimes. The problem is that I can barely remember the way it felt to lay in your arms. The problem is that I am tired and restless and very lonely. The problem is that I feel like I’m withering away and I don’t know how to stop it. The problem is that your letters are so damn sweet, and you write about how wonderful things will be when we pack our things up and make our way out west, but the truth is that I am fucking terrified.
My best friend hopes to be engaged to her boyfriend in a very sensible “six to eight months,” and mine and I are moving out and it’s not because we’re not still in love, I don’t think. I wonder where we will put our things, who will get the painting he gave me for my twenty-third birthday and the cast iron skillet and if our bikes will be lonely when they aren’t resting against the living room wall together anymore. I wonder how I will sleep without his arm around me, how I will eat without making our favorite dinners for the two of us. I know that I will get too drunk drinking full beers instead of half the pint. I probably will need it. Surely I will cry myself to sleep every night and I have to hope that he will miss me when he leaves, and that it will be enough to make him want to come home.
I tell him that I’m not sure it will work, because I don’t understand how we can leave our infinitely large little life for something unsettled. He wants to go, and I want to, too, but I haven’t got the balls. I wonder if he will still call, if he will meet another girl up north, or out west, or wherever the hell he goes. I wonder why I’m not enough. I wonder if I ever could be. Somehow our relationship is going in reverse, because we moved in together after knowing one another for two weeks, and now we’re moving out and he’s moving away and I’m pretty certain that I’m stuck.