#everything except enough

The room is quiet now. Too quiet. It hadn’t been about five minutes ago when your voices were overlapping, rising, tripping over each other in a messy rhythm you’ve perfected over time.

Joe is sat on the bed on the other side, near the window. You can feel him there without looking. You can sense the shift of his weight, the way he stares out onto the balcony, the quiet exhales he keeps letting out like he’s trying to regulate something inside himself.

Neither of you has said anything for a minute, which is unusual.

Usually, one of you fills the silence quickly, and it’s usually him. He usually scrambles to fix it before it settles into something permanent.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he’d said earlier, voice cracking slightly, blinking too fast.

“I know,” you’d replied automatically, because you hadn’t meant your words either.

And now there’s just this… the awkward stupid quiet after.

The argument has technically ended, smoothed over in the way it always is, you’ve gotten good at it now, but nothing actually feels better. You’re still a little angry. You wipe under your eye with the heel of your hand, even though there aren’t fresh tears there. Just residue.

“Are we done?” you ask eventually, your voice hoarse from crying, lined with something that could tip back into irritation if pushed the wrong way. You mean with the fight. Are you done fighting?

Joe doesn’t answer straight away. He hears another question in the one you just asked...

You finally look at him. Turn half your body and look at him over your shoulder across the bed.

He looks… well, not better.

Something inside of you wants to say something light-hearted. Something to bridge the gap. A joke, if you can manage it, you’re usually good at pulling things back from the edge before they tip too far.

Before you get the chance to, Joe exhales slowly and then says, “We need to talk…”

You almost laugh. It comes out in a short humourless huff.

“We just did.”

“That wasn’t–…” he cuts himself off, shaking his head slightly. “That’s not what I mean.”

Your shoulders tense again as you turn around even more, one bent leg taking up more space on the bed whilst the other remains on the floor.

Joe copies you and scoots a bit more towards the middle of the bed.

“Okay,” you say flatly, stopping to sniffle before you continue. “Then what do you mean?”

Joe buys a bit of time by running a hand over the back of his neck. He didn’t need that reminder of how he made you cry. You notice the way Joe’s shoulders round forward like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing, like that might soften whatever he’s about to say.

“All right. I’ve been… I’ve been thinking,” he starts, and you feel the immediate urge to interrupt.

You don’t, though.

“I think maybe we need to…” he pauses, and he stretches the silence just long enough for your brain to start filling in the blanks on its own.

“We need to what?” you prompt, sharper than you intend, impatience slipping through.

Joe looks at you then, and something about it makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the argument you just had.

“I think maybe we need to call it what it is.”

Your body reacts before your mind does.

“No.”

It’s immediate. Instinctive, like a reflex. Joe blinks, thrown slightly by the speed of it.

“I haven’t even–”

“No,” you repeat, shaking your head, pushing yourself up from the bed, hoping the movement will help you shake off whatever direction this is heading in. “No, we’re not doing that.”

Your voice still has that rough, worn edge from crying, but you sound firm in the leftover adrenaline of the fight you just had.

Joe frowns as he watches you carefully.

“Hey,” he says softly, a bit confused at your reaction. “Can you just–”

“No, I can’t. Because this is what you do,” you cut in, pacing a small step before turning back to him. “You say something vague and heavy and expect me to just… meet you there. I’m not doing that right now, Joe.”

He frowns slightly.

“That’s not what I’m–”

“It is,” you insist, your tone tightening. “You’ve been thinking, you’ve been sitting on something, and now you’re about to drop it like it’s… like it’s already decided. Don’t I get a say?”

You’re still breathing funny, still not fully out of the emotion of the argument. Your chest rises and falls a little too quickly with the wish to deny whatever Joe is trying to tell you. You know what he’s going to say. It’s been on your own mind for weeks now, but you’ve ignored it every single time it’s popped up. Maybe that’s why the gut-reaction is to also ignore it now that Joe is trying to vocalise it.

Joe exhales slowly.

“I’m not trying to blindside you,” he says.

You let out a short laugh.

“It feels like you are.”

You look each other in the eye for a moment, and it feels like the seconds stretch on for hours until he suddenly says,

“We need to get divorced.”

Your brain stalls, like it’s been given something it doesn’t know how to process. You register the words individually, but they don’t assemble into meaning. They just… exist, floating somewhere just out of reach.

You stare at him, waiting for something else to follow. For him to clarify himself, or to maybe soften it. To correct himself.

None of that happens.

“No,” you say again, but much shakier this time as your face screws up.

Joe thought you were on the same page. All arrows were pointed in the same direction. The fact that you’re acting all panicked makes his expression shift into a deeper concern.

“Hey–” he reaches an arm out that you immediately step away from.

“No!” you repeat, firmer now, shaking your head, your hands coming up slightly like you’re physically pushing the word away from you. “Are you joking? No, we’re not– Joe, we’re not doing that.” Your voice has sharpened a bit more, the leftover anger from earlier rising to meet this new threat. “Why would you even say that right now? We just had a fight. We’re both upset. You don’t just–… you don’t just throw that in like, it’s–”

“I’m not throwing it in,” he says, still calm, voice full of soft care for you. It’s the exact opposite of how you sound.

“Yes, you are,” you snap. “That’s exactly what you’re doing.”

Your face feels hot again, the skin around your eyes all tight. You swipe there with your fingers, even though there are no new years yet.

“This is exactly what I mean,” you continue, your words coming quicker now, building momentum. “You take a moment where things are already bad and then you escalate it into something much bigger than it actually is.”

Joe’s brow furrows. “Bigger than it actually is?”

“Yes,” you say, like it’s obvious. “This is just a rough patch. We’ve had rough patches before. We’ve fought before. That doesn’t mean we just–” your voice catches slightly, but you push through, “–suddenly need to end everything.”

Joe doesn’t respond straight away. He’s not arguing, which is good, but the lack of immediate pushback from him scares you. You want him to defend himself. To tell you why you’re wrong so you can fall back into an argument that you know how to fix with hot wet kisses and strong embracing arms.

But instead, Joe’s just… watching you.

“Baby… why are you reacting like this?” he asks quietly.

You frown and copy his. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he says slowly, getting up from the bed and taking a small step closer, “you’re not even really… hearing me.”

Something sharp flares in your chest.

“No I am hearing you. I am!” you shoot back. “I just think what you’re saying is fucking ridiculous.”

Joe’s gaze softens as he stalks closer.

“It’s not coming out of nowhere, darling,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” you insist immediately.

“It’s not.”

“It is, Joe.” your voice cracks on his name, and your control slips.

“It’s not,” Joe repeats, still gentle, still steady, close enough now for him to carefully reach up and hold you by the shoulders. He hesitates, unsure if you’ll let him touch you. That hesitation does something to you, because you don’t think it should be there. Not after everything.

“We’ve been circling this for weeks, haven’t we?”

“No, we haven’t,” you sound all high-pitched as your throat closes up and your eyes fill back up with fresh new tears.

You know Joe’s right. You have been circling it for weeks. You’ve just been calling it other things. Taking a break. Not working out together. Another rough patch. Anything but that word.

“Look at you. This isn’t okay. We’ve not been okay for a while now.” Joe says, pulling you in for a hug.

“We’re fine.” You argue, but even to your own ears that sounds like a thin lie. “We’re j-just–” you get interrupted by a sob of your own. “We’re just c-coming down from it.”

“Hey, hey…” Joe says gently as he places a large palm over the back of your head and pulls you in tighter. “We’re not fine. We both know we’re not.”

You shake with silent sobs in his arms.

“Talk to me,” Joe says after a moment has passed where you haven’t confirmed or denied what he’s saying.

“I am talking to you.” Your voice wobbles.

“No you’re not,” he sighs into your hair. “You’re pushing it away.”

“I just–” you stop, swallowing hard. “I just don’t understand why you’d say that.”

“I’m not saying it because I want to hurt you…” Joe pulls back, goes for some wet eye-contact that makes his whole face screw up.

“Then why say it at all?” you ask, voice small, drained of all fight.

“I’m saying it because we can’t keep doing this,” Joe moves his hands up to wipe your cheeks for you, and it makes your breath stutter.

“This?” you echo weakly.

“This,” he repeats, ducking his face a bit closer. “The fighting. The crying. The distance. The way we keep… patching things up temporarily without actually fixing them.”

You shake your head again, but it’s barely there.

“We could fix it,” you whisper. “We always do.”

You don’t and you fucking know it. Before you’ve even finished the sentence, your chest caves in on itself and your knees want to buckle. Joe’s quick to grab onto you, and pulls you back into his chest now that you can’t hold any of it in anymore.

You can feel it now.

Divorce.

You’re crying like a child, folded into Joe’s front whilst everything you’ve been holding off finally catching up to you. You clutch at him instinctively, because this is the place where you go when things fall apart and now it feels like it’s the last time you’re going to be able to do that.

“I don’t want this,” you cry into his shirt, mouth full of saliva, voice muffled and uneven.

“I know,” he murmurs as he repositions his arms to hold you tighter. “Me neither.”

“Then don’t–” your words break apart. “Don’t say it like it’s decided already.”

You can feel Joe’s chest shake through a slow exhale.

“I don’t want this either,” he admits. “But that doesn’t take away how it’s been going…”

You shake your head against him.

“No,” you whisper weakly. “No, it doesn’t.”

Joe pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, and you are confronted by his own wet eyes, tear streaks down his cheeks. You both move hands towards each other’s faces to thumb away tears that don’t stop coming, and when Joe cups your face with both his hands, you lean into his touch and close your eyes. You wish he’d hold you like this forever.  

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You open your eyes, lashes still half stuck together, and, God. He looks just as wrecked as you feel. Not at all distant or detached like he had done during your fight. He’s right here with you.

“I love you,” he says half through his teeth, snotty and wet, somehow wobbly and tight at the same time.

“I love you too,” you reply immediately, because that’s something that’s never been in question. Never.

Loving each other isn’t the problem. Will never be the problem. It’s a shame that it isn’t enough to save it. To save you.

“Then please trust me,” he says quietly. “When I say this isn’t working.”

Joe’s showing you something you’ve been refusing to look at for a while now, and it sucks.

 “We tried, all right?” he adds, softer now. “We really did.”

Your hands loosen slightly where they grip his shirt, and you hate how much you want to argue him on his words. Tried is past tense. That means it’s over. But you have little ground to stand on, because he’s right. You did try. You really, really tried.

“But I don’t want to lose you,” you whisper, face screwing up all over again, and Joe’s expression crumples at the sight of it.

“You’re not,” he says quickly. “Not like that.”

It doesn’t help, but you take his word for it simply because you want it to be true.

So you nod. Reluctantly.

“Okay,” you whisper.

It feels a little like you’re both letting go of something fragile that’s been hurting your fingers and now you’ve just watched it shatter into a million pieces on the floor.

Joe nods too before he rests his forehead against yours.

You’re too close, too intimate for a couple who have just decided to divorce each other. You shouldn’t find comfort in holding each other like this, but neither of you moves away, and Joe decides that he won’t be the first to pull away. He’ll wait for you to let go of him first, and then it’ll be sealed. For right now though, he’ll hold you like you’re still his and he is still yours, arms wrapped around each other tightly and faces pressed together.

“We really gave it our best shot, didn’t we?” you murmur.

“Yea,” Joe agrees. “We did.”

You close your eyes. Let yourself stay here in his arms for just a second longer. Everything makes sense here, and you’re afraid it always will – even if it won’t anymore.

When you finally pull back, salt-dried in places neither of you managed to wipe clean, your head feels faintly sore with the force of it all. Nothing about you feels resolved, only wrung out.

The quiet from before has returned, except then it was the pause after the fight. Now, it’s the silence after the truth’s been spoken into the room.

Joe keeps one hand on your arm for a second longer before he lets it fall away, and you realise with horrible clarity that this is what the end looks like… it’s not slamming doors or cruel remarks. It’s two people holding onto each other for as long as they can whilst knowing it won’t save them.

On the surface, it makes sense.

You can accept this, nod along with it, let it sit where it’s supposed to.

But deeper down, it hasn’t caught up yet. You won’t allow it to, and you suspect it’ll take a while before it does.

Maybe someday, it’ll make sense there too. Somehow.

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