Misses

Ten years.

Ten long, painful years of watching the woman you loved crumble into a shell. Early on you'd hoped that maybe, eventually, she would get over it. That maybe, she'd get better. When that never came, you were forced to accept that this was her, that there no longer was a way she used to be.

Things had gotten easier, she'd gotten used to herself. You could understand the pattern of your wife's behavior, meltdowns, breathing. And yes, Ellie was your wife. There was no ceremony, no flowers or puffy gown. It happened on a quiet Sunday evening, rain pouring down outside. You'd helped her hand sign the papers, kissed her when she did. That only happened around a year or two ago, what followed before was an ongoing battle to keep her.

After a few months of accepting that her condition wasn't reversing, you knew it would be impossible to look after her while maintaining a job and a place. It was something similar to a carers allowance you'd hoped for, something to keep the two of you afloat. The problem, was that the government didn't exactly see an infected as something that should be taken care of. Months of court, pleading, contracts. Eventually, you managed to get Ellie onto the exemption list in Jackson.

That time was difficult for you both. Ellie, she had to pass a variety of tests to prove she was still somewhat functional, that she wasn't hostile. You, you had to trust that they wouldn't take her life the minute she passed through the doors to the ward. The both of you were broken down in tears by the time she returned, too attatched to cope. You weren't sure if it was sympathy that dictated the decision, but you thanked your stars every damn night that it came to the right one.

Having her exempt ment Ellie was allowed outside, as long as she was accompanied. While she didn't like to go out often, sometimes she would join you shopping or for a walk in the park. You knew Ellie didn't like the stares, and you can't say you did either. It wasn't dirty looks, it was pity. People would come up to you often, say how brave you are, loyal. As though being married to her was a sacrifice. In some form, maybe it was, but not in the way that everybody else thought.

Things like that was easy to ignore though, letting it pass like a soft breeze. Despite how scary getting Ellie registered as an active infected was, it ment that you were up in line whenever any new information was put out. You liked to call it her little part-time job, letting the doctors take blood samples for study or monitoring their latest vaccine. She'd come back to you with a plaster and pink cheeks, she liked feeling useful.

Life had slowed to a softer blur. You didn't spend much time at the childcare centre anymore, but you trusted your staff to keep it running. Not everything was perfect, you still butted heads and it wasn't uncommon for stress to twist both of you in the wrong way. The difference, was that you always ended up in each others arms. Ellie needed you, and you needed her. That was something that never changed. You didn't hope for a cure anymore, not after so many years, but you were okay with that.

𓏲 ๋

It was Thursday, a moody evening in November. You were curled up on a sofa, warm with a blanket as you filled out a crossword puzzle. You definitely felt forty. A gentle smiled beamed at your lips as you glanced down at your wedding ring, the simple band twinkling against the firelight. It was Joel's, at least that's what Ellie seemed to think. You weren't sure where else she could've gotten it, so you went with that too.

Speaking of your wife, she had gone to the use the bathroom. With a small frown you glanced at the clock on the wall, it'd been a while. Pushing yourself up with a gentle sigh, you approached the bathroom door, rasping it gently.

"Ellie? Everything alright in there?"

You spoke softly, trying the handle and finding it unlocked. With no response you continued, knowing in the past she'd fallen asleep in there or got distracted staring at herself. As you opened the door, your hand flew to your mouth. Ellie lay on the cold tiles, completely naked, body shivering like a fish on deck. You were quick to fly down beside her, pulling her up to your chest.

"Shit, Els.. should've called me baby.."

You muttered, reaching for her discarded shirt and laying it over her chest. Ellie grasped onto you, warm from the fire and snuggled closer to your chest. It wasn't rare for you to find her naked, it happened when she got stressed. Thankfully, she never usually did it outside. As you chastisted her gently, her voice cut through.

"Feels.. feels different-.. feels different.."

Normally, you could brush off her ramblings, but when it came to how she felt you always took it seriously. You tucked some of her hair out of her face, her dark eyes focusing on you as best they could. Her dry lower lip pursed gently, and you raised a brow as you continued to redress her.

"What feels different? Can you show me.."

Ellie guided your hands along her body, mainly around her abdomen and up near her forehead. Your brow furrowed, gently pressing a palm to her face. She didn't seem to have a fever, nor did she look ill. Her abdomen though, normally covered in veins, did look a little clearer. Your heart stuttered.

"Probably just the vaccine you tried earlier, c'mon.."

Ellie grumbled in protest as you helped her up, now clad in just her oversized t-shirt. She followed along to the armchair, clambering onto your lap like she belonged there. You tried to focus back in on your crosswords as she snuggled sleepily into your neck, breaths warming your shoulder. You'd had your 'what ifs' sure, especially after her very first injection, but never had there been any reaction. You weren't going to get her hopes up.

The doctors had said in the beginning that if anything changed, write it down. You took that to heart. You had a whole notebook dedicated to her, name written in marker and small stickers pressed to the cover. You kept note of every fever, every meltdown and medication in case anything had ever happened. Ellie slept heavily beside you, face soft. You stared for a few moments before opening the diary.

'8.46pm, Ellie feels different.'

𓏲 ๋

Slowly, the veins had started to fade. The last time you'd given her a bath you started to cry because of it, getting to see her soft skin again. The doctors couldn't believe it, couldn't explain it. She'd done a hundred extra tests and they seemed to be convinced that she was capable of being cured. The word felt silly on your tongue after all those years. That part of you, way deep down wanted to believe, to hope.

She'd started to talk more, eat more. Her hands, though still shaky, could hold onto yours. You weren't sure there was a day you hadn't cried, how couldn't you when you were watching the love of your life find herself after so many years. In your twenties you'd thought maybe one morning she'd wake up fine, but the healing wasn't like that.

It took weeks, physio, patience. Some days were better than others. There was that little bit of light in her eyes, now that she knew that she was getting better. You'd been so scared to give her hope that wouldn't last, but seeing her so wistful of the life she wanted, the life she wanted to give you, it was impossible to try and crush her spirit. Her kisses were gentler, touch more precise. She was oh so thankful, especially when she had the words again. Tears and kisses and love that she'd only dreamed about giving to you, that her body never allowed.

"Easy does it.."

You spoke, arms wrapped around her waist from behind as she poured the cup of flour into the baking bowl. Half of it missed, puffing up into the air. Ellie was still clumsy, no amount of medication would fix that. You giggled softly into her shoulder, shaking your head as she tried to hide her embarrassment with a small grin.

"M' trying.."

Dawn outstretched its sunlit fingers to the earth. Gold, warm and ripe, trailed through the white lace curtains that were draped across the window. The light spilled over the chipped wooden table and streaked the desolate mug sitting on top of it. It turned the glass cupboard kaleidoscopic and made the dust floating around the room visible. Above your head, spinning, spinning, spinning.

This scene was a thing too tender for the grief that bellowed in your gut, that clawed at the back of your throat, that pinched the flesh up your spine. 

Domesticity, the simplicity of morning come. The absence of a person, a loved shape, hollowing your chest and letting the lonesome place gape. 

You were dimly aware of the ring burning a hole in your robe pocket. Her ring. The one you had given to her in the hush of a green, vacant field. You had traced its fern etchings a hundred times over, felt the warmth of her skin seeping into the shining silver. 

You slipped your hand into your robe pocket and you felt it now; cold. Abandoned at your door with little more than a sorrowful gaze. 

Something rose to your throat, a scratched-raw emotion that climbed its way free.

The loss was knife-shaped now, a gutting. You couldn’t help it when you stumbled to the table, tears scattering over the wood in endless droplets as a gasping sob ripped past your lips. You clutched your chest, as if the action was a balm to keep you good and whole.

The sunlight caressed the tears over the wood, making them gleam. A winking, shimmering mockery. You swiped them away with quick fingers, but it couldn’t erase anything. Not your pain, not the aching and unfathomable chafe of loss. 

They kept falling, and falling, and falling.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

The house was hushed as the night creeped in, the coolness of it settling bone-deep. Only the silvery beams of full-moonlight illuminated inside. No lights warmed within.

Items were packed haphazardly into a box, while others were strewn across the table. You weren’t obligated to sort her things, but you had wanted to make the process swift, to be done with the humiliation and anguish that welled up over and over like lifeblood from unhealed wounds. But it wasn’t so simple.

Things like this never were.

How could you pack away a promise, a now bitter what-if? The dread of it coated your tongue, too grief-thick to swallow. 

Most of her things bore your gentle mark on them. The sketchbook you leafed through with your face woven throughout. Her dear hand-painted mug that depicted your favourite flower. Her clothes, smelling of your favourite fabric softener and folded in the same way as yours. 

This was it, then. Here, in the darkened home, you feel your future being snuffed out like a flickering flame, pinched between numb fingers. Your dreams existed now only in the confines of this little kitchen, in the intertwinings of two once-loving souls. The warmth had long left the remnants of what once was. 

Your shaking fingers skimmed over a sweater slung over the back of a dining room chair. It was a deep forest green, the colour you adored most on her. It was soft beneath your hands, the wool moulding to the pressure of them. Your hands trembled as you lifted it to your face. Inhaled, long and slow, the lingering smell of her. 

It was silly, wasn’t it, to mourn like this? She wasn’t dead, after all. But her absence was a wraith, clinging to you with a hooked, unyielding grasp. Something has died here, and the stench of it loiters. Joy, bliss, love. They all decompose at your feet now, ashes of a connection, of a life.

A shiver races up your spine as you hear the lock of the front door slowly slide open. There is an uncertain pause, silent as a windless day. She doesn’t stay at the threshold long, though. You hear her hesitant footfalls, tracing a familiar path into the kitchen.

You feel Ellie’s presence hovering behind you, but you’re not quick to turn to her. She approaches you like one would a wounded animal, muted and light on the balls of her feet. You know this silence and how she sees you right now. Unpredictable, pitiable. Will you snap your jaws or will you just lie there and bleed?

You take a deep breath and lower the sweater back onto the chair. That same prick of misery pierces you through, but this time it’s solid like a blow to the gut. The hopelessness of it stabs the roof of your mouth and dampens your swollen eyes. 

You pivot, vision blurry as you face her in the rich dark, and you feel what little left of your heart sag, struck down by her own bleary-eyed gaze. If she wanted this, why did she look so upset? How was that fair?

You lodge your tongue behind your top teeth in order to suppress the ugly, jagged thing that lurches at the base of your throat. You would be civil, though you had every right to rip her apart. You wouldn’t make this worse than it was.

Instead, you clear your throat, your head bobbing to the box on the table. “I started– I started to pack your things, but I couldn’t finish the job. Sorry.”

 The words were a whisper, your voice frayed and withered from the lonesome hours spent crying. There was a twitch to Ellie’s body at the shape of its sound, an impulse to comfort, but the moment flickered as quickly as it came. 

“It’s okay,” she speaks, words gentle as a susurrating forest. “It’s really okay. I’ve got the rest.”

You nod once, backing away from the table and letting her softly press past you. The brush of her jacket against your shoulder, the fist-tight constriction of your chest at the subtle contact. Don’t let this be it.

Her back was now away from you, her short auburn hair sticking up in places as she bent her head down to view the contents splayed about. Your hands shifted at your sides, tugged by a phantom thread. The memory of smoothing those stubborn strands down danced in your memory, sweet and sentimental and useless. 

“Ellie?” 

Her name left the tip of your tongue before you could force it down, more a tentative question than anything else. You watched as her neck straightened, the pearly glow of moonlight sweeping over her in the swirls and patterns of the curtains. 

A reluctant hum of acknowledgement, green eyes sliding back to look at you. There wasn’t any cruelty in them, nor was there irritation. There was only the gut-curdling  nausea of anticipation. She could evade it no longer.

“Please… I can’t do this– not without a reason why.” 

Her gaze immediately faltered, nervous hands distracting themselves with a comic book on the table.

Her voice was small, barely a mumble. “It's just… it’s not the right time–”

“Not this bullshit again, Ellie!” There was a blade sheathed within your voice now, sharpened where only desperation laid prior. “We know each other better than that, and I… I can’t stop you from leaving but you don’t just get to walk out of here without telling me why. Why isn’t it the right fucking time?”

Even with such little light, you could see the bow-tight tension in her shoulders snap. They slump as she faces you, her body propped up against the chair as if all strength has been leached from her bones. She never was very good at avoiding the truth, but this was one she especially wanted to. It was a stubborn bruise of a thing and she wasn’t sure she wanted it poked at.

But you’re right, of course. She owed you honesty, even if it hurt like a noose closing tighter around her throat. Her eyes met yours a second time, overbright and brimming. 

“Why?” you prod again, taking one step closer, but not overstepping. “Were you… unhappy with me? Was it because of me? I want to know, Ellie. I-I want to know if I’m the reason.”

The words settle over her, a veil of suffocating smoke and her eyes flutter shut. “No, Jesus… it’s not because of you.”

“Then why?!” you agonise, hands flailing about in the air between you. Her dark brows furrow, a deep intake of breath drawing into her constricting lungs.

“It’s– fuck. I’m just not right for you anymore,” she says through gritted teeth, the skin around her closed eyes crinkling. Her hands twist in the confines of her jacket as she says this, the aged leather crackling from the movement. Joel’s old jacket. 

Your demeanour softens around the edges, lips quivering. “Did… did I ever make you think that?”

“No,” she whispers, breeze-like. “Never.”

“Then what is it, Ellie? If it’s not me, then what is it?”

There’s a pause, weighted as her eyes open to slits. Her lashes are wet with tears and her lips are pressed into a sullen, crescented  line.

“I’m not the same girl you fell in love with.” Her eyes flit from the tiles to her jeans to the yawning kitchen just beyond you, anywhere but your face. As certain as the sun rises, she knows the sight of your tear-stained cheeks will break her anew. There’s only so much heartache a person can carry in one lifetime, and she fears she’s exceeded her load.

“What I mean to say is… I… I’m so different after what happened,” she mumbles. “That doesn’t mean I didn’t love you, or that I still don't love you. It’s the… the act of loving itself. Something in me’s– it’s gone. I can't.” A tear falls as the last few syllables tumble upon themselves, a path of pent-up sorrow carving a path down her cheek. 

Memories of the past few months flurry around in your skull, of sleepless nights and deadened days. The permeating silence besides the swish of the washing machine and the insistent buzz of the refrigerator. And the warm ghost cozied up at your side, eyes the hue of wilted leaves.

“Oh, Ellie,” you breathe as glacial pity stabs your gut. Your hands move instinctually as they grasp for hers. “That doesn’t mean you’ve changed. You’re just hurt. We can work it out, okay?”

Her head shakes frantically, but she makes no effort to move. “It’s not that simple. I’ve been trying and I just can’t. I love you, but I can’t keep pretending that everything about this life doesn’t remind me that Joel’s fucking gone. He won’t see us married, and I’ll spend every day thinking about it if I stay here.” You pull away as if singed. Her grief for Joel was the one thing too buried within her to dig out and hold to the light. She was so protective of it, though it was a thorn in her side. You couldn’t get close, especially not now. 

A cold palm comes to rest at your cheek, smearing the streaks of dampness that gather there. When you look up, a shadow of a smile passes over her lips. It is a soft look, almost sweet in its vulnerability.

“There’ll be someone else,” she whispers, dipping her head to catch your gaze. “They'll cherish you more than I ever could and you’ll be so head-over-heels that you’ll forget all about me. This won't be the end of your life, I swear.”

Don’t you understand? you wanted to say. I wanted it to be you. It was supposed to be you.

But deeply you understood that there was no use fighting for it when you could feel the flames of your upset already cooling. She had given you an answer. Your relationship belonged to a sliver of peaceful bliss, and that time was over. Divergence was the only path forward, and the fact of it settled over you serenely like honey.

“Put out your hand.”

Hesitance rippled through her, but she complied nonetheless, outstretching her slim fingers towards you though they slightly trembled.

You hadn’t taken the ring off since she had slipped it onto your finger. It protested, gripping your flesh as you tugged on it, but eventually it came free. Your skin felt foreign without its constant swaddling. The aquamarine stone glinted like the ocean beneath a somber, moonlit night.

“Keep it,” you urged quietly as you placed it in her waiting palm. “Give it to the next girl you love if you think she’ll like it. Treasure her enough so that she wears it for the rest of her life.”

Her breath hitched in the back of her throat as she caged it between her fingers. The metal was still warm, comforting. “Thank you…”

Salt-drenched lips came to her cheekbone, feather-soft as they pressed a single kiss there. One last act of affection. A farewell befit for such a kind love.

There were no words left to say after that. You let her pack in peace and helped her load her things into her car. You watched as she drove down the street she once called her home, breezing beneath familiar street lamps like a moth fluttering from one light source to another.

You continued to stare until she rounded the corner, melting into the quiet of the night. Only then, you let your fingers wander to your pocket. You traced the twinings of silver-etched leaves, a silent wish drifting away on the wind.

Some things are better left unsaid, you think.