The Decadence Chronicle. Episode 119: The talk

I walked and I walked, swallowing my angsty thoughts, suffocating on them. The streets, the people, the whole fucking city… just a big blur. Everything had become transparent, and all I could see through was her. She was all there was, all that mattered. And it was over. “We need to talk,” I had texted her. The scene was set. The end was near.

Sunday, 4 PM. She opened the door and I barely could stand her gaze. A sharp pain came rushing in at the sight of her sad smile. We both knew what was about to happen, but kept things polite. We went up to her apartment and walked into her kitchen. “Tea?” she asked, casually, as if staling would change the outcome of our conversation. “Yes, please,” I replied. Perhaps I was also holding on to the status quo, to still being “us.” But I acted tough. Pretending I hadn’t sobbed to her smell on my sheets, just an hour earlier.

We sat at the table, facing each other. The room was dark, almost as dark as the night outside. I finally dared to look up. She was beautiful. I wished I could just hold her and leave all this fucking shit behind. Start over. Reset. But the short distance between us felt like a million miles.

We talked for about two hours, going in circles. It was excruciating and discouraging. Every time we got closer, we clashed and went back to square one. And we cried, raised our voices and cursed, scoffing and shaking our heads. It was helpless. She was going on that trip and that was that. The point of no return.

“I wouldn’t be sitting here, arguing with you, if I didn’t feel… this. And I am certain you also feel the same. But I can’t get my head around what you are going to do and what you are asking from me. I simply can’t,” I went, once again.
“You have to trust me!” she replied, yet another time. And I went silent, after a long sigh of defeat. We were both tired. Done.
“I like gambling,” I suddenly said, breaking the silence; somewhat enlightened by the Gods of Metaphors. “If the odds are in my favor, I will always make a bet. But you didn’t want us to be exclusive until after this trip. And you are going to stay in the same hotel and the same room with this guy you still have feelings for. Things are bound to happen. My odds are fucked. This bet is fucked, and so are we.”
“You don’t know that,” she replied, aggravated.
“C’mon, I’m not an idiot! You know it’s gonna happen. If you leave… it’s over,” I said, my voice breaking.
She looked down, and then her teared up eyes looked into mine. “I’m sorry… You deserve better…”
“What do you want, C?” I asked, firmly. “What do you really want?”
“Why do you keep fighting?” she said, with angered frustration. “Why don’t you just leave?”
“Because I know what I want and who I want. I want you, C,” I replied. We locked eyes. The distance didn’t seem that long anymore.
“But, even if I don’t go, you won’t trust me. What kind of relationship can we have?” she asked.
“I don’t trust you because you haven’t given me any reasons to do so,” I answered. “If you stay, that’s all I need. Are you willing to give this a try? To give us a chance?”
She reached my hand across the table. The distance disappeared. “I am.”

We fucked, cooked dinner and agreed to see “this” (whatever it might be) through to the bitter end. We’ll make it or break it, nothing in between. No room for leftover doubts nor “what if’s.” And it’s scary and will be challenging as fuck, but what is worthwhile and isn’t?

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