i was never whole to begin with

second part

I blink, and suddenly I'm pulled back to now, to my heartbreaking reality. My deep sea grief, just as angry and unfathomable. And the loneliness, the way a silent life seems to scream at you. The loneliness pulls me out of my reverie and my gaze sharpens suddenly. I realize that I'm holding back fresh tears. Be a rock, I tell myself. Make the lump in your throat dissolve. After a moment of fighting it, it recedes, but promises to come back. Be a statue, I have to remind myself again. I stare at my hands, watching them as they have a mind of their own. Picking at my nails again, bad habit. My nails. The raw flesh and hangnails show off another equally bad habit; I chew at the skin. My red nail polish was chipped and hastily repainted with a lukewarm green color. This strikes me as funny, as it's June, not December. The perils of painting in half-light. The oddity of it reminds me of my own deceptive existence. All nice and pretty, until some naive little s**t comes along and starts to nibble along the skin. Then the polish starts to fall off and before you can stop it, it's too late. Most of it's gone, and when you try to fix it, you don't have the right shade. I wrinkle my nose. Goddamn nail polish.

"Mags..." He reminds me again that he's here, with that f*****g nickname. I've come to hate all of them. 'Babe' when he's happy, 'Maggie' when he's annoyed, now 'Mags'. His last ditch effort to save me from myself, I suppose. His arms uncross and reach toward me. Bells and alarms go off in my head. I can't let him touch me, too many memories. It would be so easy to admit defeat, but I was never one for the easy route. So I shrink back a fraction of an inch before I make a fatal mistake. I look into his eyes, and I'm frozen again. His hands, as gentle as he could force himself to be, lightly placed his fingers on my waist, right on the curve. His hands makes me shudder, but not in the right way. I want him off. I can feel his rough hands through my clothing. I memorized every callous and contour a long time ago. His hands are bringing another memory to the surface. I can feel it just peeking over. This one guarantees heartbreak, I can taste it, so I shoved that one back down. Down, deep down. Doing so, I take an automatic step back. His relief is palpable. He steps back with me. I realize what I am doing. It's the dance, and I know the steps by heart. It was how I acted when I wanted to reconcile, but was too damn stubborn to admit it. Me and my damn pride. He knows the dance well, he always initiated it. He understands me so well. Always too well.

But this time I don't want to dance. I want to run far away from here. But his eyes keep me there. "Mags, just let me..." His somber voice trails off as I unconsciously pull myself toward him, wanting him to hold me one last time. Our relationship was effortless, easy. I could see his relief at my response. His clenched shoulders relaxed, and a quiet sign escaped his lips. I let him pull me close, let his arms around me. My head falls onto his chest, and I can hear his heart beating. His chin just fits atop my head. We fit together, like puzzle pieces. So deceptively easy. My hands, limp at my side, start to twitch. They itch to hook themselves into his belt loops. My hands have become traitors. My self-restraint is cracking. I'm fighting myself again. It would be so easy to just give up. But I can't. It's too painful to be with him now. I push him away, but he still keeps one of his hands on my waist. The last time I let him do this was right after my sister died, right before the heartbreak set in. That was nearly six months ago, and I'm still numb from it. I swipe his hand off me, and take another step away from him in one fluid motion. He was the only one who completely lose it, and I hate that he'll remember it.