67 Days

We were unhappy for years. We had good days, weeks, even months, but we both knew it was never the same. We refused to talk about what troubled us, wallowed in silent misery, and wished for things to miraculously get better. We were afraid to address the elephant in the room, thinking it might stampede on our already brittle relationship. We buried our heartaches deep, until we couldn’t breathe any longer.

I wasn’t sure what made you believe I was capable of doing what you accused me of. I guess after all this time, you never really knew me. Some said you were afraid of your own ghost, whilst others said your accusation was a confession. Perhaps they were right. If only you had opened yourself up to the possibility that you had it wrong, if only you had truly listened, we wouldn’t be here. Why it was so impossibly difficult for you to even fathom that you made an error, was something I would never truly understand. Why you chose to cause such pain time and time again for the sake of your pride was something I would never get over with.

Our years together, the love we had for each other was slowly crumbling to pieces, but we were somehow holding it together. Or at least I was. But it took you 67 days to completely and decisively mangle us beyond mend. For 67 days, you pushed me to my limits. For 67 days you caused unimaginable harm to the people you swore to protect. For 67 days, everything we had, everything we fought for, you ended.