It Went in Little Ways

It Went in Little Ways

Shared by kellycmurray103.

She was waiting to meet him at their usual spot. A “no frills” restaurant they had often frequented throughout their relationship. She was anxious, biting her nails then forcing herself to stop, only to repeat the annoying habit once more. She kept asking herself, why am I so nervous? This is just like any other lunch date we have had. But in the deepest recesses of her heart, in the burning inferno within her soul, she knew this was not the truth. Something was different. Something was wrong.

He had been acting strangely, differently, the last couple of weeks, maybe it was the last couple of months; she couldn’t pinpoint the exact beginning – the beginning of the end. But like most women who seem to possess a natural intuition about people, especially men, she knew, with absolute certainty, that it was over.

Men, to her, had always been an enigma. It is ironic that most people tend to believe that women are strange, confusing beings, while men are uncomplicated, plain creatures who always say what they mean. This is a farce, as all women know. What all women really want is in fact very simple: to be loved, to feel singular, to be deemed rare and irreplaceable, to be the one and only. Yes, the fairy tales did have that one thing right. What men want, however, is never so simple. They play endless games; they fall in love one minute and out the next; or maybe it was never really love, but lust, so often the line is unclear; they say they love everything about you, except that one thing that they want you to change; they get bored, tired, restless; they say things just to please you, or shut you up; they never tell you what they really want, what they really feel, hiding their emotions behind a mask; they never say what they mean.

And here she was again, confused. Why doesn’t he love me anymore? What have I done? She knew she would never really find out the reason. She would most likely hear the speech as many have heard it before: a modified version of “It’s not you, it’s me.” However, at this point, she was really beginning to suspect, it is me!!!

The door to the restaurant opened, and in he walked. She sat up straight and endeavored to do her, “I’m not scared at all, everything is totally normal, but I still love you” smile, knowing she undoubtedly failed. She could picture the way her face looked to him: crooked, nervous lips, downturned eyebrows, eyes already teeming with tears. He sat down in front of her, looked down at his hands (never a good sign) and opened with the cliché to end all clichés, “So, we need to talk…”

After they parted ways outside the restaurant, their restaurant, she walked a few steps, only to slowly crumple to the pavement. She sat alongside the building, folding her knees into her chest, clenching her hands together, and leaning her head against the cold, brick exterior. She attempted to slow her breathing and stop the inevitable tears from tumbling down her quivering cheeks. In spite of this, they fell anyways, cooling her warm face that mirrored a mixture of pain, anger, sadness, but most of all, bewilderment.

An elderly man was passing by her, only to stop, turn and face her with a question on his lips. “Is something wrong, young lady?” He asked.

“Yes,” she answered in little more than a whisper. She looked up into his eyes; they were kind and reassuring, like her father’s, and she found herself wanting to explain more. “The man I love no longer loves me.” She moved her hand to point to the place where the perplexing and fragile heart resides, “And he’s still inside.”

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