Abnegation

            She told me there was no simplest definition of love than the one she knew: it was a mutual abnegation. And when abnegation meets abnegation, they would receive a feeling of comfort, warmth, and certainty. Surely, there was no turning back.

            She was a demure woman, and so attentive -- as if her lack of spoken words had caused her to be so. She sat there, her dark waves gently cascading down her back. She took a strand of her hair and twirled it around her nimble fingers before letting it fall. She turned around and her amber eyes caught me staring. She held my gaze for a slight moment and gave me a faint smile before turning around to face our professor. I loved every moment where I continuously gazed at her in awe. What caused me to fall for her was unknown, but I did. Luckily, the feeling was mutual.

            Turn around. I said. I brought a circle pendant around her neck and closed the clasp, the chain draped along her collarbone and the pendant rested beside her heart.

            It’s beautiful.

            How quickly it had been. Our memories bled together until time was an obstacle that we surely had overcome. Together. She said as I slipped a wedding band around her finger. We were together. We were not two. We were one. And she was -- to the fullest degree -- mine, as I was hers.

            What’s wrong? I asked. She looked up; through those thick lashes were eyes that held excitement, with a hint of fear. I asked again.

            She told me, so hesitant, fidgeting with the necklace. I’ve been feeling irritated lately. She continued, she explained something was itching her insides -- gnawing at her. She gains no sleep. She gains no silence. You’re going to be a father. She said.

            We prepared for the reality of parenthood together. I was stressed; I spent long hours gloomily contemplating how everything I loved about the present might soon be sacrificed. She, with her habitual sleeplessness, devoured books on motherhood. She struggled though, her inability to concentrate an enemy. She was worried. I knew she was, all her effort could not mask her worry.

            I watched her -- changing ever so slightly. Yet when she looked different with her little bump becoming ever more pronounced, she still was the same person. She was she, still.

            When Sam arrived, I knew I was meant to think that she was the most beautiful thing on the planet. I was told that once I laid eyes on her, my surroundings would dull and I would fall in love -- but I just stared. She looks like a tiny alien. I said. I abstained from melodrama because it was not my thing. Simply put though, I felt intense love, awe and admiration.

            They told me that having a baby changes everything. They said that it ruins your sleep. That was -- in all honesty -- one of the fundamental truths about parenthood. But nothing really changed; Sam was now six and still bouncing and her mother did not change too -- not that I realized.

            She screamed. I was jolted awake after one piercing cry after another. I found her there, crouched behind our kitchen island. She sobbed erratically. Her breaths were rugged while she clasped the circle pendant. She said that someone was here. She repeated it again and again.

            It’s okay. I’m here. But my words were meaningless to her; she repeats it again. I look around the house, but there was no one here. No trace of unknown presence; door shut, windows closed to prevent the winter from seeping in, and the furniture in its place. I tell her to calm down again, but she gave me a look of incertitude. She shakes her head. We get into an argument. My fault.

            She lets loose. She searches for something, the thing she calls it. She clutches the pendant and starts to rip it off. But realization hits, she stops and she surprisingly calms down instantly. I coaxed her into coming back to bed again. I tried to calm her. No matter what I say, my words were of no significance to her; she was getting closer to the edge.

            I watched her then, after arriving from work. Her stillness was an aberration; she merely sat there and watched the dust dance in the late afternoon glow. She always gripped the necklace tightly, giving the impression as if she wanted nothing more than to rip it off. I moved near her. She did not say welcome home like she used to, but I said I’m glad to be home, pretending that she did so. She turned to me and gave me one of her faint smiles. She walks away as expected. On rare days, she helped me make dinner. She tries, I know she does -- I do too.

            I bring home cake to celebrate our fifth anniversary. Happy anniversary. I said, kissing her on the cheek.  She does not move nor does she react. I did not know how long she was in this state, but I try to pretend that she was still here in this room with me --with Sam and I. I know she was trapped in her head, trapped in a room with no doors. Her goal was not to escape. She had no goal. She was just in the room. She was finally at the edge.  

            I came home one day. Sam was at her friends. Today. I decided. I would truly help her today. I would tell her that we were going to a museum. I would bring her to a counselor. If to help her were to deceive her, then I would do so. I entered, but it was empty. I looked, and I looked again. No sign of her, until I heard a sob originating from the bathroom. I ran.

            The image was a blur. I saw her; her hand grasped a knife. Slits were clear on her tiny wrists and blood slowly dripped down her hand. She looked at me -- such vulnerability, such raw fear. I knew she did not recognize me at first, but she did and I was relieved that she did so. She dropped the knife. He was here, he did this to me. She said.

            It’s okay. I’m here. She accused me of not listening. She yelled. An outburst erupted. She demanded me to look at her wounds. She begged me to understand that he was here and he had hurt her. No one was here though. I looked around. It pains me to do so. She was not wearing her necklace, instead the circle pendant laid at her feet. The chain was broken. No matter what I said, I could not bring her back. She had finally fallen off the edge.

            We were both stuck in places existing only in the imagination. I was once convinced that the reason she refused help was because she knew I wanted nothing more than to pretend. I pretend that nothing had changed. I wanted to keep her home. I wanted her to stay with me. Now I realized she feared my ears were not capable of listening. My eyes were blinded by the past -- and they were. I never offered help. I did not listen. I did not see. I needed to stop living in the past. She needed help, help that I had no way of giving.

            She told me there was no simplest definition of love than the one she knew: it was a mutual abnegation. My name was Ethan, and I had an intense feeling of deep affection for her. In plain English, I was in love with her. I took her to the help. I kissed her on the cheek, and I said my goodbye. Goodbye.