We met on a breezy summer afternoon, a day forever burned into my brain. I remember everything, the way the soft grass tickled the bottom of my feet, the way the sun wrapped its warmth around my face, and how the casual conversations around me lowered to a hum when our eyes met. I looked away, confused at the feelings churning and wrapping around each other, as if they had just been awakened from a deep sleep. But then I looked back at him, observing his every move. His curls moved with the wind, as if dancing to its natural rhythm. The subtle rays of sunshine hit his eyes, illuminating the greens and blues that had just met mine. The way he moved, graceful and quiet, yet turning heads as he walked past. 

The first year was pure bliss. I saw it in my head as one long memory, rather than broken up by the months. It was the little things that made me fall into a deeper love. The way he made pancakes for me every Sunday morning, the smell of them drifting into my dreams with the faint sound of Jack Johnson in the background. The way we danced around the living room, twirling and laughing, not caring if the whole world saw. The way he looked at me. When I caught him he always smiled and shook his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling upwards. We became good at reading each other's minds, living in synchronicity. I loved how he always knew when I was down, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and lifting my chin, making me feel better before he even asked what was wrong. 

But things had been different lately, as if there was a force slowly pushing us away from each other. Like the “Creation of Adam”, the space between our two fingers started out small, but it grew day by day. Some days I tried to close the gap, reaching and clawing at the empty space, but other days I simply gave up. We had become oil and vinegar, separated by the things within us. The arguments started out small, like leaving dirty dishes out or laundry left in the washer, but they grew more intense. The light of our relationship began to grow dimmer and dimmer, until one day it went out. At first I was afraid, but I adapted because I was even more afraid of being without him. Soon I could see in the dark, finding happiness in even the smallest of shadows. But I knew on the inside I was breaking. I could feel myself cracking and splintering with each glare, as if he had the power to turn me into ash. But I held myself together. I thought that if I could heal myself, then I could heal us too. 

After a long day of work, we both came home irritated. Each side eye and comment worsened the situation. The tension was building. I felt as if I could cut it in half. All of a sudden he exploded. Warm tears stung my cheeks as he hurled insults that pierced my chest. But I was stronger than that. I took what I’d been holding in for too long and launched painful words back. After the damage was done, we both stood back, wounded. I felt relieved to have the weight of everything I had kept hidden lifted off my shoulders, yet the words I had just received began to weigh me back down. Too tired to talk about what had happened, we decided to go to bed and figure it out in the morning. That night, we lay apart instead of intertwined. I grew cold, sad, and lonely, each feeling more amplified than the last. But as I curled up against him, those feelings spread like ivy, growing and spreading into every crevice of my cold and bitter body. 

That next morning was a Sunday. I woke up to silence, and the only thing I could smell was burnt toast. I got out of bed and found him sitting on the couch, dark circles hiding his sleepy eyes. We began to talk, letting all of our feelings untangle themselves from the massive knot within our relationship. In the beginning we were the same, attracted to each other by the things we had in common. But our interests slowly grew apart, we became different people then who we were at the start. Ignoring the breakdown within us, we taped the broken ends, patched the gaping wounds with small bandages, and put on fake smiles to hide the aching discomfort. As we came closer to the end, the painful realization that there wasn’t much we could do hit me like a punch to the gut. I knew it had hit him too. Stunned and out of breath, we sat quietly, the noises of our thoughts bouncing off the walls. 

Looking back, I saw that we had fallen out of sync a long time before, but I was too  oblivious to the small changes. We started to walk on broken glass around each other. With each jarred edge slicing through our naive flesh, the truth became more apparent. We had grown apart, and as simple as that sounds, it’s made for the hardest goodbye. I don’t hate him. I still get lost in his eyes, and Sunday mornings will forever have a special place in my heart. I will always love him. But in a way, letting him go was like shedding my second skin. Like skin, he had protected me, stayed with me through good and bad, and held me together at times I needed it most. But over time, that skin began to not fit and grew uncomfortable. I had to let him go in order to keep growing. The process was agonizing, but I gradually healed. Each day I’ve patched up the cracks, meticulously piecing together my new skin.